


the path of gold and the world of men

by Mertiya



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Cover Art, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Forced Marriage, Frederica is MVP, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrations, M/M, Multi, Political Alliances, Reinhard is angsty, Sedoretu, Slow Burn, There's a hell of a lot of intrigue, Yang is angsty, Yang needs a damn drink, at least for one of the pairings, everyone is angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-09-01 22:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 52,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20265553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: Instead of a forced surrender to save Heinessen, the Battle of Vermilion ends with a forced marriage:  a sedoretu, an ancient and unbreakable Imperial tradition.  But is even such a drastic step enough to save the Alliance?  And how will the four starring members adjust to a sudden political marriage?





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The concept of a sedoretu was first introduced by Ursula Le Guin in her short story "A Fisherman of the Inland Sea." Read more here: https://fanlore.org/wiki/Sedoretu I have kept the concept largely intact, only tweaking a few things about its significance to fit into the plot.
> 
> Many thanks to dulaku, husband, and Zomburai for putting up with me sending them repeated excerpts and desperately trying to figure out important plot points.
> 
> Also, art by Zomburai! :D

_Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,_

_And the sun looked over the mountain’s rim;_

_And straight was a path of gold for him,_

_And the need of a world of men for me. _

—Robert Browning, “Parting at Morning”

Hilda von Mariendorf was going to die. As she stared out the vast windows of the _Brünhild_ at Admiral Yang’s fleet that had fought so bravely, she realized that she wasn’t frightened, just a little frustrated. The battle had taken so long, and she was so fatigued that the only feeling inside her was the kind you might get from losing at a game of chess.

A hand settled gently on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Reinhard said, so softly she barely heard him.

She took his hand and stared at the way the energy weapons lit the night sky on fire. “I’m not. Even if this is where it ends, sir, it was an honor.”

“I lost.”

“No one wins every time.”

“I promised him,” Reinhard said, and she looked to the side to see that those piercing blue eyes were staring blindly out ahead of him, not really focused on the battle outside or the looming shadow of Yang’s flagship, which would soon bring their deaths. “I failed him.”

“He would be proud of you,” Hilda said fiercely, squeezing his hand. “He would be _proud_.”

“Marshal von Lohengramm, there is a communication incoming from Yang Wen-Li’s ship.”

A communication? They weren’t just going to be blown out of the sky? Hilda blinked in surprise and looked sideways at Reinhard. He seemed just as confused as she was. “On screen,” he said, after a bare moment of hesitation, withdrawing his hand from her shoulder. She saw him clutch for a moment at the pendant around his neck before letting it go.

It was the admiral himself. Hilda had only seen still photographs of him before now, and they didn’t quite do him justice. His easy motions leant him an air of almost kindness, a bizarre juxtaposition to their current situation. “Marshal von Lohengramm,” Yang Wen-Li said, touching a hand to his head in a tired-looking gesture of respect. “You and—” his eyes flickered to her. “Miss von Mariendorf. Please prepare for a shuttle to transport you over to our ship. If you refuse, I’m sorry to say we’ll be forced to fire on you.”

For an instant, Reinhard’s face hardened; then he glanced over at Hilda as well, clicked his heels together, and bowed his head slightly. “As you say,” he snapped. “Come.” He swept towards the door, his long white cloak billowing out behind him. He said nothing to Hilda as she followed him. What move was Admiral Yang making, she wondered. Unlike Reinhard, who might have preferred it if they’d simply been shot down, Hilda discovered she was remarkably grateful to still be alive, despite the strange absence of fear she’d had. This whole situation, though—why ask for her in addition to Reinhard? Why _just_ them? There were other potential hostages.

Reinhard brooded in silence during the shuttle ride, and Hilda let him. Why _her_? she wondered again. When they stepped off the shuttle, it was to see a group of Alliance soldiers waiting for them. At the front of the group was Admiral Yang, and beside him was a pretty woman with fluffy red-brown hair standing at attention. The white sashes crossing from their outer shoulders inwards stood out brightly against their dark green uniforms, an unmistakable marker of night-and-morning.

She heard the harsh intake of Reinhard’s breath beside her, and the final piece fell into place. Well, this was barbaric.

~

Reinhard was fuming, clutching at his pendant so hard he thought he might rip it from his neck accidentally. How _dared_ he? Dying would be infinitely preferable. If it wasn’t for two things holding him back, he would be half-tempted to try to grab one of the soldier’s weapons and shoot Yang down where he stood. But doing that would not be fair to Hilda after she had stuck with him through all of this, and it would mean giving up on his promise to Kircheis.

The admiral’s eyes caught his, and Yang gave him a wry, weary smile. “I’m sorry about this. It wouldn’t have been my first choice either.”

Reinhard opened his mouth to retort and discovered he was too angry to speak. He felt Hilda’s hand brush gently at his elbow, and she waited, then spoke up herself. “A marriage of force, Admiral Yang? Do you really think this is the right way to bring about peace?”

Yang’s mild gaze swept over to her. “I think these are my orders, and I think they mean several hundred fewer people dying.” He ran a hand through his black hair. “Anyway. These are the terms. Take them or leave them.”

“I’ll take them,” Reinhard managed to snarl through lips that were painfully twisted. Then he looked sideways at Hilda to make sure that she would as well. Hardly fair to answer for her.

She gave him a minute nod, then spoke up as well. “I’ll take them, too.”

Yang’s shoulders relaxed just a little. So he hadn’t been sure that Reinhard would acquiesce, and he really did seem to think this was a preferable outcome to shooting him dead where he stood. How—about to think, witheringly, _soft_, Reinhard paused, because Yang was not the first man he had known whom he might have expected such a reaction from. Perhaps he had been too long with Oberstein.

“So, it turns out I’m the one with the authority to perform the ceremony as well,” Yang said, sounding somewhere between conversational and apologetic. “It will be a little unorthodox.” He held out a hand to Hilda. “Night, right?”

She nodded, squeezed Reinhard’s elbow once more, and then walked from his side to Yang’s, passing whatever morning woman Yang had managed to dredge up on short notice, who crossed to stand beside Reinhard. He refused to look at her.

Yang nodded at a young man with fair hair, who looked at him pleadingly for an instant, then sighed, nodded, and brought forward a folding table with a sheaf of papers on it. “Here.” Yang gestured to Reinhard, then Hilda. “You should both read it. Lieutenant Greenhill and I have already signed.”

Something about his civility made Reinhard even angrier than if he’d forced them through the ceremony with guns to their heads. He snatched the paper with bad grace, scanned through it, then tossed it to Hilda. Whoever had written it had done a fine job; the language was simple but thorough. The instantiation of a traditional Imperial sedoretu between two nations, in which both would retain their sovereignty beneath their respective night-and-morning pairs. It was a rather brilliant stroke, in some ways, Reinhard thought, in frustration, rendering, as it did, the Imperial’s military advantage basically null and void. And it was pointless for him to refuse and die, since that would only lead to the Empire’s utter disintegration. But to be so close to total victory, only for it to be snatched from his hands at the last possible second—he growled deep in his throat as Hilda laid the paper back on the table and nodded.

“You’ll sign it?” Yang asked.

Reinhard barely trusted himself to speak, but he spat out, “Give me a pen.”

“Ensign Mintz?” At Yang’s prompting, the fair-haired boy stepped forward again and offered him a blue ballpoint. Reinhard grabbed it, feeling the plastic bend underneath his tense fingers, and scrawled his traditional R-scribble-v-scribble-L-scribble. Hilda put out her hand quietly and signed in the last remaining spot.

Yang blinked at both of them for a moment, then sighed softly and said, “Then by the authority vested in me as captain of this vessel and beneath the sights of Eostre and Aurvandil, I pronounce this sedoretu binding. Can I have the pen back? I have to sign again as the officiant.”

A raw laugh tore itself from Reinhard’s throat at that. Of _course_ Yang had to officiate as well. Who else was going to do it? What a shameful mockery, no matter how legally binding it was.

After scribbling something also reasonably incomprehensible, Yang turned to the fair boy again, and a taller man standing behind him. “Ensign Mintz and Lieutenant Commander Schönkopf, could you sign as witnesses, please?”

“Are we done with this farce?” Reinhard bit out once the last two names were added to the paper.

“For now. You can stay here, or we can send you back in your shuttle, but either way I think we’ve all earned some well-deserved rest.”

“We’re going back,” Reinhard snarled. “And I hope to Odin I don’t see your face again.” He ignored the mocking little voice in the back of his head that said, _That might be difficult to avoid._


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two separate couples navigate their first night of married life, with somewhat different strategies.

Yang Wen-Li looked mournfully at his mug. Tea with brandy probably wasn’t going to be enough this time. Maybe straight brandy would do it.

“Yang?” Julian’s voice. Julian poked his head round the door.

“Can I get more brandy?” Yang asked him.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I’m not sure anything’s a good idea right now.” He slumped forward onto his arms. “You realize I’m technically a king now, right?”

“What I realize is that you haven’t slept in seventy-two hours, _sire_.” Julian came up behind him and put his hands on his shoulders. “You need to sleep.”

“I asked for brandy!”

Heavy sigh from Julian. “You’ll wake up in three hours if you try to dose yourself into it.”

Yang rolled his head over to the side dreamily. “Let’s see. If this mug is space, then we can consider the tea and brandy to be the Empire and the Alliance. Then if we pretend I’m Trunicht,” he took an exaggerated sip, “there you have it. What a good analogy. I would have made a remarkable history professor.”

Julian sighed again. “Please go to bed?”

“Don’t wanna.”

There was a pause, and Julian patted his shoulder again. “You definitely don’t want to go to bed?”

“That’s right. I’m glad you understand now.”

“Hmmm,” Julian said in a considering manner that Yang was too tired to worry about. He really didn’t think he’d have any luck sleeping anyway and there was no point in lying bed, awake, worrying about the fate of the galaxy now that he and Frederica were married to Reinhard and the—the other woman, the nice one—Hilda, that was it. Oh, god, it was ludicrous. The whole thing was such a sham. And yet, of course, it did make sense. Trunicht could not be certain the Empire would withdraw with Reinhard’s death, and what better way to set himself up as _de facto_ ruler of half the galaxy? Of course, Yang did not intend to let him get away with that—but that meant work, and dealing with being a man who had more power than any man should ever have, and he didn’t even _want_ it—

At some point, Julian’s presence had faded, and Yang groaned and ran a hand through his hair. He’d let himself devolve into a damn circular line of reasoning when in all reasonableness, Julian was right. He needed sleep. For a few minutes, he struggled with the idea of getting up and tottering across to bed, but it seemed so far away. Much easier to just lie here with his head pillowed on his face. If he was lucky, he might pass out from exhaustion.

Someone put a gentle hand on his back again. “Don’t wanna go to bed, Julian,” Yang groaned.

“It’s not Julian,” Frederica’s gentle voice told him. “It’s your wife.”

If he’d gone back to sipping on his cup of tea, he would have choked. As it was he did manage to knock his forehead against the desk.

“Oh—Admiral—be careful—” Gentle hands underneath him helped him back up into a sitting position.

“Ah—Lieutenant—” She had bent down until they were face to face, and the sight of her cut through the haze in his mind, enough that he leaned forward, cupping her face with his hand, then pausing, holding himself back before he could go any farther. “Lieutenant—” Or should he be calling her Frederica? He wasn’t sure which felt stranger, given the current situation. “Um—I know you agreed—earlier, but this situation isn’t quite what either of us imagined, is it? I mean, you don’t have to feel as if you’re obligated to—”

“Wen-Li?”

He flushed at her use of his first name. “Y-Yes?”

“Please be quiet.” She slipped onto his lap and closed the distance between them, deepening the kiss until his hands were moving up and down her slim back. “We lived, didn’t we?” she murmured into his mouth. “Let’s think about that. We lived, and we’re married, and there’s a perfectly good bed over there.”

Yang’s hands tightened in the cloth of her jacket, and he kissed gently down the side of her throat, drawing a soft noise from her throat. “All right,” he said. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

“You should always listen to me.”

“I should.” She was his safety and his security, his right arm who never faltered, always there with a quiet word when he needed it, and she was—_god_, he did not deserve this. He did not deserve her, but if she saw fit to want him, he wasn’t going to argue. He didn’t think he could. He let her get up and take his hand, let her tug him over to the bed and push him down onto it. She had his jacket half-open before he realized he could return the favor and began tentatively to undo the buttons of hers, but his fingers were clumsy and he was still wrestling with the second one down as she started to ease his off his shoulders.

She kissed his ear. “Lie down, I’ll get it.”

Struggling out of his jacket and pulling off his t-shirt, he lay back on the bed with a groan as tense muscles finally started to relax. Lieutenant Greenhill—Frederica—folded her jacket, sash, and t-shirt, and set them neatly on the ground by the bed. She stood in front of him in her trousers and bra, smiling fondly, with her hands clasped in front of her. “I’ve wanted this for a very long time,” she said.

Yang didn’t know how to respond. His throat seemed to be closing up, so he just smiled back and held out his hand. She took it and kissed the palm of it, then closed the distance between them to kiss him again, deep and thorough. He opened his mouth and let her deepen the kiss more, his hands falling onto her warm, silky-smooth waist.

He thought he would have been content to stay like this for a hundred years. Frederica was making soft throaty noises and grinding her hips against his, and every one of her motions sent tingling sensation through him, reminding him that she was safe and alive and _his wife_, no matter what else was wrong with the world.

After some time, she drew back and nodded to the bed again. She slipped off her bra, and Yang felt his face getting oddly warm. She was beautiful, though, probably the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She had a thin scar running across her chest, just above the top of her right breast, and he wanted to kiss it. Lower, too. As she slipped off her trousers as well, he just looked at her, at the pink tips of her small breasts, at the soft brown fuzz of hair between her legs, at her soft brown eyes and the way she smiled at him as she came back to the bed. “Admiral Yang, you have entirely too many clothes on,” she told him, and he realized there was cloth still covering his legs. He’d forgotten about anything so mundane as—existence—somehow.

“You’re useless,” she told him, but the warm tone of her voice was saying something very different as she kissed him softly, almost chastely, on the mouth, and undid his belt and the top of his uniform trousers. “Lift your hips?” A little dazed, he did, and she slipped his trousers off, pausing and frowning as she worked his socks off as well. He loved the tiny furrow in her forehead. Then he stopped having the ability to think about details like that, because she was straddling him, pressing her breasts into his chest, and kissing him again.

“Frederica—” he managed hoarsely.

“Shhh.” She took his finger and nipped the end of it gently.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he told her, then gasped as she rubbed against him.

“Fortunately, I know exactly what _I’m_ doing,” she said archly, pulling back to give him a good look at her naked form. “You’ll just have to let me take command for once.”

“Yes, of course.”

She took his hand and put it between her legs. “Rub a bit, please.” Obediently, he rubbed his fingers in slow circles around the slickness there, and she sighed, rolling her hips gently against him.

“It’s important—” Yang gasped as she took him in hand and then sank down on him in a rush of blissful heat, “_—god—Frederica—_to—to—”

“To what?” She sounded only faintly breathless, which somewhere in the fuzziness of his mind Yang assessed as being unfair.

“To assign the right person for the mission,” he managed to get out with a grin, and she stuck her tongue out at him as she moved up and then down again. She was kissing him again, and she was—she wasn’t _light_, but she was the right weight, somehow, on top of him, the muscles of her thighs rippling against him as she moved. He reached up for her breasts, cupping them and watched her face change, go slack, as he gently massaged them.

“You can pinch a little,” she told him, and he tried, but it was getting harder and harder to focus on anything that wasn’t the point of heat between them where they were joined. Perhaps he succeeded all the same, because she gasped and said his name, once, twice—then reached out and wordlessly pushed his hand down again, between her legs. She rocked against his clumsy fingers as he moaned and moved his hips up to meet hers.

“Oh,” she sighed softly, and her face—Yang didn’t know how he would ever describe her face, and he wished, for once, silly, foolish, futile, that he’d been a writer instead of a historian or a soldier. Just to be able to describe that look, to hold onto it, before it slipped away through his fingers.

And she was tightening around him, moaning, wordless, and that was—it was—nothing but heat and wet and sweat and desperate, slick urgency and—

“_Frederica_—”

She was on top of him, panting, kissing across his face with light, fluttering kisses, and he was rubbing a hand gently across her back. “I love you,” he whispered, and her brown eyes lit up from within.

“Go to sleep, Wen-Li,” she told him, rolling to the side and putting her head on his chest.

“I love you,” he said again, sleepily.

“I love you, too,” he heard from a long dim distance away.

~

“Lieutenant Commander!”

Walter von Schönkopf paused in pacing back and forth across the hallway. “Can I help you, Ensign Mintz?”

Julian’s face was a little red, and he seemed slightly disheveled. “Uh…can I get you to check on something for me, sir?”

Walter raised an eyebrow. “If you tell me what it is, son. Ensign.”

“I want to make sure Admiral Yang is actually getting sleep,” Julian explained. “It’s been about an hour since Lieutenant Greenhill went to check on him, and they’re probably, um, not—still—but just in case…”

Chuckling, Walter nodded. “All right, come on then.” He was going to need some sleep himself, after a proper hot shower. It had been a long day. Days. Hours. And the end result presumably hadn’t been satisfactory for anyone except, maybe, one or two politicians of the Free Alliance. At least they were alive. At least they’d saved the Alliance—on the barest of technicalities, but it was better than nothing. Things would seem brighter tomorrow. They always did.

He followed Julian to Yang’s quarters. The doors were probably locked, and he didn’t want to knock, for fear of waking someone up, but, as he’d often told the Admiral, his personal security was appalling, and it wasn’t too difficult to undo the lock on the door and open it a crack.

The lights were still on, and a china mug was still sitting on the desk where Yang had left it, but there was no sound except the light noise of gentle, rhythmic breathing. Walter stuck his head in just far enough to get a good look at the bed in the far corner of the room, where Admiral Yang Wen-Li, the hero of the Free Planets’ Alliance, was lying, eyes shut, hair disheveled, with his new morning wife Frederica Greenhill curled around him, almost protectively. They were both clearly sleeping deeply, but Walter recognized the particular smiles hovering on the corners of their lips. Damn. He hadn’t been that well-fucked in too long.

Ducking back out, he shut the door quietly and turned to Julian. “They’re sleeping,” he reported. “Judging from what they’ve just been through, I’d guess they’ll be sleeping for another twelve hours or so, which I am going to go off and do now myself. So should you.”

“I haven’t been awake all that long,” Julian said. “We got to the battle pretty late. But I’ll try to get a nap or something.”

“I foresee that none of us are going to get much rest in the next few weeks, so get what you can in now,” Walter warned.

As he waved at Julian, he wondered if the other sides of the sedoretu would be so easily and pleasantly consummated as this one evidently had been. Probably not, he thought gloomily. If they all lived long enough to see it consummated at all.

~

“Marshal von Lohengramm.”

“Go. Away.”

Hilda stood in the doorway without moving, holding a steaming mug in one hand. “You need to sleep.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know you’re angry. But you’ve been awake for over three days now, and you _must_ sleep.”

He turned to her, blue eyes blazing and crushed all at once, like storm-tossed violets. “I lost in the most ignominious way possible. It would have been better if I’d died.”

She crossed the room to him and pulled a little travel chess set out of her pocket, setting it firmly down in front of him. “Is that what you’d tell a student learning to play? ‘Commit suicide if you ever lose’?”

Reinhard took a deep breath, let it out, and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “It was the culmination—the most important—”

“There will be other battles.” She set the mug down in front of him beside the chess set. “If you won’t sleep, at least have some nice warm milk.”

He regarded her with a flat gaze, opened his mouth, then paused and raised a hand to the pendant around his neck, and abruptly deflated. “All right,” he said quietly. Hilda wondered what he was seeing as he looked past her, raised the cup to his lips, and drained it without a murmur. “You’d better help me to my bed,” he said. “It would be embarrassing if I were to pass out at my desk.”

Taking his arm, Hilda helped him up without a murmur and took him through the door into the suite with his bed in it. With a sigh, he sank down on the edge, toed off his boots, and pulled off his cloak, before collapsing backwards onto the bed with his arms outstretched. Hilda smiled and gave him a half-bow, before she turned to leave, but Reinhard’s hand caught her sleeve before she’d even taken a step. He looked at her out of eyes that were already fluttering as the sedative coursed through his veins. “Stay,” he murmured softly.

“Sire—are you sure…?”

“We may as well admit to the course of events that has transpired. Hilda. Night.”

With a soft sigh of her own, she sank down beside him. “Morning,” she murmured. “My lord.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trunicht sends a message, the sedoretu meets, and Reinhard is overdramatic.

The orders that Yang Wen-Li received, to find appropriate morning and night women and enter into an official sedoretu with Reinhard von Lohengramm, in a last-ditch effort to save the Free Planets’ Alliance from utter subjugation, were sent a mere three and a half hours before the arrival of Lohengramm’s perhaps most loyal and talented Admiral, Wolfgang Mittermeyer, the Storm Wolf himself, and his fleet, at Heinessen. He had wrestled with himself over the wisdom of his decision; he had started to give the order and thought better of it; he had considered what would happen if Yang Wen-Li got lucky, if Reinhard got unlucky, if the man he hero-worshipped died at Vermilion. Finally, he had made what would have been a fateful decision with incredibly far-reaching ramifications, if he had made it three hours earlier. He had taken his fleet to demand the surrender of the homeworld of the Free Planets’ Alliance itself through threat of aerial bombardment.

Instead of a terrified and cowed group of politicians, he was faced with a smug Job Trunicht with the images of a paper enacting a royal sedoretu already in hand. Due to the nature of the treaty, there was nothing to be done. The Alliance retained her sovereignty by the skin of her teeth, despite the heavy casualties she had taken; indeed, she was elevated to the status of a partner with the Empire. Reinhard had succeeded in essentially destroying the Alliance’s military power, but politically she retained her independence, with Yang Wen-Li and Frederica Greenhill becoming, in a few pen-strokes, the nominal “sovereigns.”

The sovereigns had no power to rule their own country, but by the laws of sedoretu were equal in all things to the other two in the marriage. In a sense, they were ambassadors, appointed for life, who took their orders from the governing body elected by the people, but since they were also tasked with an extremely delicate responsibility and technically the equals of Hilda and Reinhard. The Alliance government had scrambled desperately to find a way to safety and had, at the eleventh hour, realized that they could exploit an old Imperial tradition to their benefit, but it was nonetheless an unprecedented situation.

While the admirals of the Imperial military and the cabinet of the Alliance waited with bated breath to see what the following day would bring, the four people most centrally affected by the situation slept dreamlessly.

~

Frederica wasn’t certain what had woken her, but the first thing she noticed was a certain emptiness by her side. She sat up, a little sleepily, and looked across to see that Wen-Li was just pulling on his trousers.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I woke you.” A little bashfully, he bent and kissed her cheek.

“It’s all right.” She stretched, smiling a little to herself as he blushed and blinked and didn’t quite look away. “If you’re getting up, I should as well.”

The embarrassed, almost cheerful look slipped away, and he sighed. “Yes, there’s a lot to deal with. I never really thought Trunicht would go this far.”

“We could have refused,” Frederica pointed out, as she got up and started to pull on her own clothing.

He ran an awkward hand through his hair, twisting at it the way he normally twisted at his hat. “I didn’t actually want to kill him?” he said uncertainly. “But I didn’t want us to lose either. So I guess it’s hypocritical that I’m not happy with this solution.” She gave him a raised eyebrow but before she could said anything, he raised his hands almost in surrender. “I know, I know, not everything has a good solution.”

For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Last night, everything had felt natural, one moment flowing into another in a neat progression with only one possible outcome from heartbeat to heartbeat. Frederica had barely felt that she was a separate entity from her night husband. Now, it all seemed off-kilter somehow. A million pathways and possibilities branched off from each step, until it was impossible for her to see even a few seconds ahead.

Wen-Li shook his head, eyes sliding away from hers, and he slipped on his shirt and began to button it up. “I’d—better check if we have new orders. We probably have new orders.”

She straightened the sleeve of her jacket. “I’ll get you some tea, si—dear.”

Her slip of the tongue pulled a worried half-smile out of him. “Thank you. I’ll let you know—the situation. When I figure out what it is.”

Tea was easy, Frederica told herself. It would steady her. She headed for the mess hall and promptly ran into Julian, who saluted her with a smile. “Tea for Admiral Yang?” he asked. “Would you like me to make it?”

“No, I’ll do it, thank you.” She needed the grounding of that simple little ritual. Julian’s face fell just a little, and Frederica wished she knew how to explain. But it was apparently just a morning for everyone to be disappointed.

Making the tea did help, a little, and she was glad for its steadying warmth when she returned to Wen-Li’s quarters and found him sitting slumped over the desk, rubbing one hand slowly over his hat. Not certain what to say, she just slipped the tea in front of him.

“_Several_ messages from Trunicht. He’s impatient.” Wen-Li took a long drink of the hot tea and sighed. “I guess I shouldn’t have brandy right after waking up.”

“You should not,” Frederica agreed, putting a hand on his shoulder that she hoped was comforting. “What did the messages say?”

“We’re supposed to convey to our—” Wen-Li grimaced, “—_consorts_ that the Alliance would like to host the sedoretu as soon as possible for a more formal discussion of the ramifications of the recent treaty.”

She tightened the grip on his shoulder. “Would you like me to contact them?”

He shook his head slightly. “Let’s do it together.” Then he looked up. “You’re not my aide anymore, you know.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to make me tea.”

She brushed her lips across his cheek. “I never made you tea because I _had_ to.”

~

Reinhard woke with a headache like someone hammering on his temple, rolling over to the side of the bed and grimacing as he cradled his head in his hands. Faintly, he heard the rustle of cloth behind him, and, for a moment, he expected Sieg’s long-fingered hand on his shoulder, Sieg’s calm voice asking him what was wrong, asking what he needed. But no one touched him, and it wasn’t Sieg who said, “Sire?”

“I’m fine,” Reinhard snarled, disappointment spinning pain into anger. “Leave me alone.”

Clutching at his head, he staggered out of bed, looking around and finally locating the glass of water he always left on the night table. Gratefully, he took it up and drank it down. He needed a plan. He needed to decide what to do now. But all he wanted to do was stare at the starry sky and think of Kircheis.

Someone knocked on the door. “Marshal von Lohengramm?” It was Oberstein’s voice. Grimacing, Reinhard stalked over to the door and flung it open hard enough that it bounced off the wall and he had to catch it with his foot to stop it from rebounding into his face. Oberstein did not flinch.

“There is a message from Yang Wen-Li’s flagship,” he said steadily. “They are requesting a meeting.”

“Tell them they can come over to my ship, or they can go to—” Hilda’s hand on his arm—_too small, too damn small_—made him cut off his words. “Tell them they will be welcome on board,” he got out, his words clipped and short.

“As you wish, Marshal.” Oberstein saluted, his face, as always, expressionless. Reinhard wondered if he knew what had transpired. Certainly, he and Hilda had not told anyone, but for all he knew the Alliance had broadcast the situation while he was asleep. And certainly the soldiers must be wondering by now what had brought about the last-minute ceasefire. Well, let them wonder. Reinhard was still stinging and in no mood for either contempt or pity. “I’ll be in my sitting room,” he said and shut the door in Oberstein’s face.

He did change into a fresh uniform and white cloak, although more to make himself feel a little more human than out of any regard for the people he was about to meet with. Hilda tried to leave the room while he was changing, and he sharply ordered her not to, so she instead hovered awkwardly, keeping her face averted. Reinhard didn’t bother to tell her she might as well watch. Time enough for discussions of that particular elephant in the room later.

By the time he had changed, splashed water on his face, and calmed down a little, their guests had practically arrived. He and Hilda had to hurry to make it to the reception room before them, but somehow he managed to arrange himself regally on his couch beside Hilda—and bless Oberstein: he had put out a tray of cookies and a steaming pot of coffee.

When Yang and Greenhill entered, they stood hesitantly in the doorway, and then Yang raised his left hand and Greenhill her right awkwardly in the traditional greeting. Reinhard ground his teeth, debating not responding, but Hilda was already starting to move, and he refused to let her look as if her morning husband did not support her, so he raised his right hand a few inches off the arm of the couch before letting it drop.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, night husband and morning sister?” he asked in as chilly a tone as he could muster.

Yang shuffled his feet awkwardly and looked helplessly at Greenhill, who paused and then stepped forward. “The Alliance wishes to host the sedoretu as soon as possible for a discussion of the ramifications of our new—ahm—alliance—in more detail.”

Whatever look flashed across Reinhard’s face, it made Yang pull his hat off his head and twist it anxiously, but he controlled his first impulse, which was to scream loudly, and instead said, “Very well. Perhaps it would be appropriate to discuss the reorganization of their government beneath their new sovereigns.” He smiled, showing his teeth.

Greenhill seemed confused, but Yang pulled a face. “We’re not sovereigns,” he said. “It’s more of an ambassadorship.”

“Are you well-versed in the meaning of _sedoretu_? I wasn’t aware the Alliance paid much heed to such customs.”

“Customs change,” Yang said, his eyes narrowing.

“Take care you don’t allow them to change too much.”

The other didn’t respond verbally, although he flicked his thumb over his bottom lip. Reinhard suppressed a growl. He wanted a damn fight, and if he couldn’t have one on the battlefield, he’d settle for an argument, but it didn’t look as if he was going to get either.

“Please,” he said, after letting the silence stretch into awkwardness and watching Greenhill and Yang exchanged perturbed looks again. “Have a seat. We ought to get to know each other, since we are suddenly involved in such an _intimate_ arrangement.”

Minute sigh from Yang, but he nodded, stepped forward, and sat down. Greenhill followed a beat later. Hilda silently offered them coffee; Greenhill accepted, and Yang declined. The silence started to stretch again.

To Reinhard’s surprise and chagrin, before he’d decided to say something else, Yang spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said bluntly. Reinhard waited for a follow-up, a justification, something he could parry against, but he got nothing more. Yang had lapsed into another brooding silence.

Angrily, Reinhard stirred another sugar cube into his coffee. The tiny silver spoon clinked against the side of the porcelain cup, but it was disappointingly impossible to cause a satisfactorily violent impact.

“I think you’re right,” Greenhill said, just as he put the cup to his lips. “About us getting to know each other, sorry.” He refused to sputter, but the coffee did burn his lips.

“I suppose so,” Hilda responded stiffly. Yang said nothing, just twisted that damn hat over and over again.

“The current president of the Alliance—” Greenhill’s eyes went sideways to Yang, but he was now staring at the ceiling.

Reinhard smirked. “You mean the man you _prefer_ to be a dictator?”

“He was elected,” Yang put in immediately, and Reinhard pounced.

“A petty, small-minded bully.”

“Yes,” Yang agreed, with another sigh, somewhat to Reinhard’s surprise. “But he won’t always be in power.”

“And what kind of lives will there be for his citizens while he _is_?” Reinhard retorted. “You argue in favor of a crumbling, decadent, decaying system.”

“It has more staying power than a single man, no matter how talented he is.” Did he look doubtful? Probably wishful thinking on Reinhard’s part, but the backhanded compliment was enough to make him take a second look at Yang. Could he really afford to let his frustration over a single loss cause him to overlook and reject a powerful ally? For the first time, he really let himself think of the possible ramifications of the sedoretu itself, rather than the political situation it represented. Yang Wen-Li, the darling of the Alliance military, was now Reinhard von Lohengramm’s night husband.

“More staying power than two men?” Reinhard said quietly, setting his coffee cup down. “More staying power than a dynasty founded by a sedoretu of the best and brightest?” Greenhill he didn’t know particularly, but he felt confident in applying the label to Hilda, and the way Yang looked at his morning wife spoke volumes.

To his surprise, Yang almost flinched. “I don’t want—this,” he said abruptly, and as he looked up, he made what was almost a pushing motion with his hands.

“What?” said Reinhard. “You don’t want…what?”

“Power.” Yang shrugged. “I want—” he actually chuckled. “I want a pension. And a very big library with a lot of history books in it.”

The anger flamed up in Reinhard’s chest again. He had offered this man the universe, and Yang had dismissed it with a light laugh, as if it were _nothing_. He found himself on his feet in an instant, and as he stared down at the man who had outmaneuvered him, he reached out and swept the coffee cup off the table, exulting in the sound of shattering china as it hit the floor. “Then you should have killed me!” he snarled. “Because I swear by Odin I will never rest until your pathetic democratic republic is nothing but ash and dust beneath my heel!” Then he swept his cloak about him and stormed out of the room.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oskar and Wolfgang have a drink, and the sedoretu have...awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I got a little bit of confusion on the last chapter, here's an explanation of sedoretus as they function in this fic:
> 
> \- Two men and two women, two are morning and two are night  
\- in this case, Reinhard and Frederica are morning, and Yang and Hilda are night  
\- all night/morning pairs are valid sexual pairings, but morning/morning or night/night would be "incest"--it's more of a fraternal thing, so hilda/yang and frederica/reinhard are not valid sexual ships and they refer to one another as brother/sister rather than husband/wife

“Another drink?” the Storm Wolf asked. Oskar von Reuenthal nodded, waving his hand at his friend in vague acquiescence. How many had that been? He squinted at the table, where several bottles of wine stood in various stages of emptiness. Maybe they should have just started with one at a time. Oh well.

“We were so close,” he said morosely.

“My fault,” Wolfgang responded glumly. “If I’d been faster—”

“Look. He’s not dead. That’s a good thing, surely?”

A deep sigh. “It is,” Wolfgang conceded. “And the Empire itself is intact, but this is just going to drag things out.”

Oskar ran a finger absently around the top of his wine glass, listening to the soft almost-squeaking tone. “Is it, I wonder,” he said speculatively.

“Obviously.” Wolfgang took another long draft of his wine, and Oskar gave him a slightly disapproving look. This wine was too good to be treated so cavalierly. “The Alliance will use this as breathing room to regrow their military, and we’ll just be stuck back in another neverending war. And we were so close.”

“Why didn’t Admiral Yang kill Reinhard when he had the chance?” Oskar asked, coming back to the same question that he’d been picking at like a scab for the past two days. “He could surely have pretended he hadn’t received the orders in time.”

“That man is like Kircheis, I think.” Wolfgang rubbed his hand across his face. “Too good for his own good. Ah, that wasn’t—” He waved a hand. “You know what I mean.”

“Do you think he’s serious about it?” Oskar swirled the wine in his mouth, letting the smoky aftertaste suffuse his tongue.

“It’s so obviously a sham, though. And he’s Alliance; why would he be serious about it?” But Wolfgang looked abruptly thoughtful.

“You’re probably correct,” Oskar conceded and then suppressed a sigh because Wolfgang was getting that extremely foolish, tender look on his face. The stupid one, the one that Oskar was just a little in love with, even though it was something he could never have.

“Do you think he really could be serious about it?” Wolfgang said, resting his head on his hand. “I mean if the sedoretu was _real_. Reinhard wouldn’t have to conquer the galaxy, we could have peace that way.”

“Even if Yang Wen-Li was insane enough to try, it wouldn’t last,” Oskar sighed. “Just be glad we have a respite.”

“It could, though,” Wolfgang persisted. “And wouldn’t—wouldn’t it be sweet? I mean. Reinhard’s been—”

“Exactly. He’s still pining after Kircheis. He’s not going to let anyone else into his heart,” Oskar scoffed, wishing he could reach across the table and brush his hand across Wolfgang’s knuckles. Not that Wolfgang would mind, he supposed, but it would only make the tight longing in his stomach tighten.

“If there’s one man who could make Reinhard von Lohengramm fall in love again…”

“I will bet you ten bottles of my best wine that he doesn’t.”

Wolfgang grinned, shattering and adorable all at once. “You’re on, my friend.”

~

It was late evening when the sedoretu landed on Heinessen. In another timeline, it might have been full morning, with the sunlight shining down on the newly-crowned Kaiser and crowds crying out his name like a benediction. But in this one, Reinhard had no desire to announce his presence or the reason for it, and the other three were perfectly happy to minimize any fuss.

Yang was exhausted. The journey had not been an easy one. He hadn’t been sleeping well, expending far too much energy going over and over the situation again, wondering if he should have fired on Reinhard’s ship, if he should have found another solution. He knew it wasn’t productive, but he couldn’t seem to stop, and his brandy intake was slowly but steadily climbing.

Trunicht was waiting to welcome them when they disembarked, along with a small retinue of journalists, which was unpleasant but not particularly surprising. If anything, Yang was just thankful he hadn’t brought more people. Hilda seemed quiet but composed, and Reinhard, if silent and cold, was at least not in a towering rage. He greeted the reporters and the president with the outward appearance of calm, though Yang did notice that his face seemed pinched, his blue eyes blazing like torches.

They hadn’t spoken since Reinhard’s dramatic exit from the room. Yang still wasn’t entirely clear on what exactly he’d said to earn quite such an angry reaction. Hilda had seemed almost as confused as he and Frederica were. But they’d delivered Trunicht’s request, so Yang felt it only fair to leave the Imperials alone, since that seemed to be what they wanted. Now, he wondered again if he’d made a mistake. The obvious disharmony in the sedoretu probably wasn’t something they should have let Trunicht see.

As usual, Trunicht was unreadable beneath a painted-on smile. Yang’s feeble attempt to suggest that due to the lateness of the hour, they should perhaps head to his own home was easily riposted. “Neither we nor Kaiser Reinhard’s people could be expected to guard your home,” Trunicht told him. “I’m afraid it’s simply not defensible enough. Don’t worry, we’ve made arrangements at the embassy.”

Yang did not like the sound of that, and it was Frederica who murmured a thank you on behalf of all four of them. Hilda was hovering uncomfortably, and Reinhard merely nodded. Unfortunately, his freezing demeanor did not seem to visibly discomfit Trunicht, who, as a politician, was presumably immune to the emotions of other people.

The “arrangements” were a reasonably nice suite at the top of the embassy. It was, however, smaller than Yang would have liked, particularly for four people, and—significantly more damning—it only had a single bed. Of course.

Reinhard’s jaw tightened slightly more, and then he looked challengingly at the other three. Hilda gave him a flat look. “I think I’m going to take the floor,” she said, in a tone of voice that suggested she in no way felt like sharing a bed with Reinhard when he was in a mood like this.

“We’ll take the floor as well,” Yang sighed, looking to Frederica for support, but her face had gone surprisingly stubborn.

“There’s room for two people in the bed,” she said. “At least.”

Reinhard fixed her with a piercing glare. “I thrash,” he said, crossing his arms.

Frederica smiled. “Yang doesn’t,” she retorted.

“Now hang on—” Yang protested, trying to find a way to say that he’d rather have a sore back in the morning than be offered up as a sacrificial lamb.

“And he’s the oldest,” Frederica continued, her smile widening.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Reinhard said, sitting down on the bed and pulling off his shoes.

“Bad back,” Frederica said sympathetically, and Yang shot her a frustrated look. If she didn’t want Reinhard to have it all his own way, _she_ could sleep in the bed. She gave him a tired, harassed look back, and he sighed again, ran his hand through his hair, and sat down on the other side of the bed. “There _is_ room for two people,” he said mildly.

“Next you’ll be saying all four of us ought to share,” Reinhard sniped, but he seemed more concentrated on his own exhaustion than on winning the argument.

“_No_, thank you,” Hilda muttered from the floor.

Reinhard muttered something inaudible, then stripped off his cloak, jacket, and trousers—leaving him only in a pair of boxers, flung his clothes onto the floor, and splayed out across at least two thirds of the bed. Yang said, somewhat helplessly, “I’m going to brush my teeth.”

“Don’t forget your pajamas, dear,” Frederica said brightly, holding out the little overnight bag they had packed together. He took it and beat a hasty retreat. When he got back, he found Frederica talking quietly to Hilda. Reinhard was apparently asleep, still with his arms flung out, clearly taking up as much bed as possible. Yang slipped under the covers, trying to stay at the edge of the bed. One more glance over to make sure he wasn’t likely to roll over on top of the ruler of half of space. He really was a young god, Yang thought bemusedly, with that shaggy golden hair spilling across the pillow, the lithe muscled body already relaxing into sleep.

Well, Yang thought, that, at least, was a good idea. He shut his eyes and tried to follow it.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a day begins awkwardly and gets much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing worse than canon but heads' up for graphic textual and visual depictions of violence, blood & injury.

It was dark, and someone was sobbing. Yang’s eyes were heavy, and his back and head were aching. “Julian?” he said sleepily. It was probably Julian. Nightmares, right? He hadn’t had them in a while, but it had happened, occasionally. Vaguely, Yang thought there was some reason that didn’t seem quite right, but he was too sleepy to figure it out, so instead, he moved towards the sobbing figure and rubbed his back.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The sobs grew a little quieter, though they didn’t stop entirely. “’M right here,” Yang mumbled, slinging his arm over the figure’s shoulders and pulling it tight against his chest. “It’s all right. Go back to sleep.”

He let the darkness of the night reclaim him.

~

Reinhard was warm. He blinked his eyes slowly and saw buttery sunlight oozing over the windowsill and a square of blue sky beyond that. Perhaps he was dreaming, because he hadn’t seen anything like it in a long time. Or perhaps, perhaps—it had all been a dream, all the conquests, all the wild desperate striving, and—and—

He realized there were arms around him, a chest pressed into his back, warm breath on the nape of his neck. “Sieg?” he murmured in disbelief, wriggling over and trying to avoid displacing the cuddler. In a moment he was face-to-face with a round face framed by a mess of straight black hair. It wasn’t Sieg.

He yelped and shoved Yang backwards. Yang’s eyes shot open as he was propelled backwards across the bed, and in a moment, he was half-crouched, his hand at his side, grasping for a firearm that wasn’t there. Reinhard pulled himself up and for a long moment they just stared at one another.

Then Yang’s eyebrows went up slightly. “Are you all right, Marshal?” he asked, politely. Reinhard wanted to laugh in his face. He wanted to yell. He wanted—he wanted to be _back_ in that warm, safe embrace.

“I’m fine,” he said shortly. “Just how impossible do you think acquiring some form of breakfast will be?”

“You may find it easier if you put on pants,” Yang told him dryly. A sleepy yawn from the floor was Greenhill, stretching. She stood up, put her arms around Yang, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Did something happen?” Hilda said from the other side. “Marshal von Lohengramm?”

“I’m _fine_,” Reinhard snarled petulantly. “I want breakfast before we have to deal with whatever infernal negotiations the Alliance has in mind.”

She rose and looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thank you,” he said, feeling abruptly small and chastised for having snapped at her.

“God, I need tea,” Yang said, his body relaxing a little.

“Do you really need tea, or do you need brandy?” Greenhill asked dryly.

He gave her a lopsided smile. “Either/or. But whatever we all want, I imagine we should forage for it quickly, because I don’t think it would bother Trunicht for us all to be starving and irritable during his negotiations.”

Reinhard sat loosely on the side of the bed, waving the others into the bathroom first, but as Yang started to rise, some strange impulse made him reach out and catch the other man’s sleeve. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “For shoving you.”

Yang’s lips quirked in amusement. “I’m sorry for getting into your personal space. I think my half-asleep brain thought you were my ward.” He sighed. “And I know I keep saying this, but I’m sorry for—” he waved a hand, “—this. All of this.”

For the first time, looking at him, Reinhard thought he understood. “What’s done is done,” he said harshly, and as Hilda came back into the room, running a brush through her hair, he reached out to her as well. “Miss von Mariendorf. I don’t think I have been fair to you. For any harm I’ve caused, I’m truly sorry.”

She blinked at him. “No harm, my lord.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, broken by Greenhill’s return. “I’m going to go find us something to eat,” she announced. “I think I’ll be less recognizable, and it’ll cause less fuss.” Yang looked up at her with an expression of such tenderness that Reinhard found himself compelled to look away. By the time he looked back, she was gone, and Yang had lain back on the bed, grabbed his uniform hat, and tipped it over his face, blocking out the sun. Reinhard snorted and got up, searching for his own uniform.

~

Hilda hadn’t slept well. The strange accommodations and her concern about Reinhard had combined to have her waking up several times throughout the night. At one point, she had opened her eyes to the sound of low sobbing, and, heart in her throat, she had gotten silently up. With her eyes well-adjusted to the dimness and in the faint glow of the city outside, it was easy for her to see that Reinhard was curled on his side, hands balled into fists, as he cried helplessly and with abandon.

She started to navigate her way around the bed to move to his side more easily, but before she could reach him, the other form in the bed stirred sleepily and flopped itself over towards him. “Shhh,” she heard Yang Wen-Li’s voice say. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The sobs quieted. Hilda held her breath, wondering if she was witnessing an actual honest-to-Odin miracle. Reinhard’s breathing evened out. Yang murmured a few more slurred words and was silent. Hilda tiptoed back to bed.

So she hadn’t been exactly surprised to wake up and find that neither of the participants in last night’s little drama had apparently been entirely conscious of it. But the tenderness in Yang’s voice had done something she hadn’t thought possible and made her wonder if he could really be her night brother, if he could really be Reinhard’s—there was too much uncertainty and it was too early to tell. But for the first time, Hilda wondered if there could be a real benefit to this arrangement in the long term.

~

Reinhard took a long drink from his glass of water. The muffins Greenhill had miraculously procured from somewhere had been very good, but at this point, they were a distant memory from five hours ago. Hammering out the details of the treaty was taking far more time than he had anticipated, with Trunicht trying to squeeze out every available benefit to the Alliance. Yang had, to all appearances, gone to sleep an hour ago, fading away under his hat, and Reinhard himself was starting to heartily wish he could follow his example. He had only kept his temper because Hilda, demonstrating more diplomacy than he had realized anyone possessed, had taken on the brunt of negotiations herself. He didn’t think she had done it intentionally, but it was a strange reminder that they were now, definitionally and legally, equals.

“No,” she was saying now. “The full sedoretu ceremony _will_ take place on the Imperial Homeworld. Unless you wish this entire thing to be a transparent farce, Greenhill and Yang will be crowned as our consorts.”

Yang’s hat twitched, Reinhard noticed with amusement. So perhaps the Admiral wasn’t quite as asleep as he was pretending to be. But he didn’t have much chance to enjoy the sight of Yang’s discomfort, because Trunicht was opening his repulsive mouth, probably to object.

“May I remind you,” Reinhard said brightly, leaning forward across the table towards him, “that this sedoretu is the only thing keeping my army from utterly obliterating your meager little excuse for a government?” Yang’s hat twitched again, and Trunicht sputtered. “So perhaps,” Reinhard continued, feeling at least a little triumph running like molten lightning through his veins, “you would do well to treat it with the importance it deserves.”

To cover his obvious discomfort, Trunicht fiddled with his tie and cleared his throat. “Very well,” he said, after a minute. “If you will agree to the sedoretu spending half of its time on Heinessen and half on the Imperial homeworld, we will agree to the ceremony being held there.”

Reinhard shrugged, though he felt himself cheered by the small dance of Yang’s hat. It was one of only two options for the sedoretu and the one that gave him a better nominal control of the Alliance, in any case.

“We will have to discuss the appropriate entourage,” Hilda put in seriously. “But, yes, we will—” The sound of an explosion cut off the end of her sentence.

Yang leapt to his feet even before Reinhard, hat fluttering to the ground, grabbing for the walkie-talkie on his belt and snapped into it, “Schönkopf, explosions and gunfire in the Imperial embassy. Over.”

“Mobilizing now. Don’t get killed. Out,” Reinhard heard with peculiar clarity as he brought his own communication device to his mouth and called on Mittermeyer.

Then he stood up hurriedly and tugged on Hilda’s elbow. “Stand back,” he told her. Across the room, Greenhill was doing the same to Yang, and he found himself exchanging a look of grim determination with her as he pulled his energy weapon from his belt.

“Barricade the door!” He and Yang had spoken almost in unison. The few guards who were in the room immediately followed the order, shunting Trunicht and the Alliance diplomats around to the other side. Oberstein resisted being shunted and helped them, along with Reinhard and Greenhill, to drag the heavy table onto its side and set it up against the door. “Now get back!” Both of them again. Reinhard couldn’t help the way delight fizzed in his veins. He had _dreamed_ of something like this, over so many long, weary, lonely nights.

“Civilians in the back,” Yang was saying, and then Greenhill physically put a hand on his chest.

“You, too, sir. You’re useless at close combat.”

Pause. Sigh. Yang allowed himself to be pushed behind the line of soldiers next to Hilda, although he took out his firearm and readied it, holding it with the muzzle safely pointed at the floor. After a moment’s thought, Reinhard called out, “Away from the door. Stay out of the line of fire!” The two groups split hurriedly.

The second explosion was much worse than the first. Although the table took a chunk of the pressure wave, it was still blasted inward with a sound that tore through Reinhard’s hearing. Part of the wall blew out as well, sending shrapnel flying every which way. Reinhard flung up a hand to shield his face, but he could already hear screams and cries of pain from people who had been injured by the blast, and he could see nothing through the dust suddenly obscuring the room. Not good.

Energy weapons were firing, so rapidly back and forth it was almost impossible to distinguish friendly fire from enemy. Reinhard dropped to his knees to present less of a target and shouted for Oberstein. They needed to regroup.

“Watch out!” A hand reached out and yanked him sideways behind a chunk of table that had survived the blast. The whine of an energy weapon sounded simultaneously, and there was a burnt place on the floor where he had been crouched a moment ago.

“Thank you,” Reinhard said, turning—and finding himself face-to-face with Yang Wen-Li. The other man had lost his hat, and his face and uniform were smeared with grey dust, but he looked more determined than Reinhard had ever seen him. He gave Reinhard a swift nod.

“We need a plan,” he said.

“Do you know who this is?” Reinhard asked.

Yang shook his head. “Not a clue. I guess some people weren’t happy with the sedoretu.”

“Admiral Mittermeyer will be bringing reinforcements, but I don’t know how long it will be before he gets here.”

Yang gave him a tired smile. “I’ve got reinforcements coming as well. I hope they don’t get in each other’s way.”

“My troops have better discipline than—”

“I was joking.”

Reinhard found himself blinking in startlement. “You—oh.”

“Anyways. Plan?”

Plan. Yes. Something with a little more detail—and perhaps a little more dignity—than ‘survive until Mittermayer arrives.’ They were stuck on the tenth floor of a building that, if he recalled correctly, was a sheer drop to the ground on all sides, so they couldn’t get out through the window. The first explosion might have been the elevators or the stairs—they couldn’t assume there was a clear path to the ground through the inside of the building, either.

“Reinhard,” Yang said urgently. “Talk to me.”

Reinhard had a sudden, peculiar feeling of vertigo. He’d almost forgotten that Yang couldn’t _actually_ see the inside of his head. And all of this was obvious, so surely Yang must have seen it as well. It was almost embarrassing to martial his thoughts and explain quickly, in a low, clear voice, but Yang nodded seriously along with him.

“So,” Reinhard concluded. “Trying to get out is risky, but possibly not riskier than staying here. At the very least, we’ll have a better view of the situation from the corridor outside.”

“We’d only have to get a few feet forward, too,” Yang agreed. “We’ll want to be as inconspicuous as possible so they can’t tell if we’re friend or enemy from a distance.” His eyes went to Reinhard’s white cloak, and Reinhard sighed, but conceded the necessity, shrugging it off his shoulder and letting it pool on the ground. “I’m sure you can afford a new one,” Yang said, with another mischievous smile, once again catching Reinhard totally off guard.

There was no time, in any case, for him to come up with a witty retort. “We need to find Mariendorf and Greenhill,” he told Yang, and the other man’s face hardened again.

“Agreed,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They crawled carefully out from behind their shelter and made their way across the far wall. By now, some of the attackers had made it past the covering fire into the room, and Reinhard saw that they were wearing dark hooded tunics, belted across the middle, which didn’t help him much in terms of figuring out who they were. A shame, but there was no point worrying about it now.

They found Greenhill and Hilda together, taking shelter behind another large chunk of rubble. Hilda was bleeding slightly from a cut above one eye, but they were both otherwise uninjured. Yang breathed out a soft sigh and took Greenhill’s hand. “Frederica—you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” She held his hand tightly between both of hers. “What now?”

Yang quickly outlined their strategy, and she nodded, as Reinhard wished he hadn’t been so quick to abandon his cloak. In lieu of anything better, he pressed his sleeve against Hilda’s forehead, trying to staunch the bleeding. She made no complaint, just smiled at him, and he was suddenly struck by the devastating loyalty of this woman, now his night wife. “Hilda,” he breathed. “I do not deserve you.”

Her forehead wrinkled a little in puzzlement.

“Of course you do. You are my lord.”

And something about that rang oddly hollow, but there was no time to interrogate it further, so he simply dropped a soft little kiss on her forehead, just where her hairline began. She gave him a shocked little look, then a puzzled smile, and when he glanced up, he saw that there was a similar bemused, oddly tender expression on Yang’s face as he watched them.

“Let’s go,” Reinhard said, unsure how to handle any of these emotions.

They fell into step—Reinhard in the lead, Greenhill taking up the rear, and Hilda and Yang in between. The fighting was becoming fiercer, stirring up more of the dust, which was good. Better cover. “Lay down covering fire,” Yang said to Greenhill, then looked at Reinhard. “I’ll—try as well.”

One heartbeat more, two heartbeats more, as everyone got their weapon settled and readied, and they made a break for the hole in the wall by the door. As soon as they were out from behind the sheltering piece of stone, it was utter chaos. Reinhard thrilled to it, sweeping his energy weapon around in a broad arc to keep them safe, feeling his heartbeat thud in his ears, singing a sweet and deadly song.

He leaped across what remained of the wall and turned to help Hilda over. She wasn’t quite as graceful, but she leaned on his hand and made it across with little difficulty. Next came Yang, turning the muzzle of his gun downward as he stepped over backwards. He was halfway across when a stray bolt appeared from the struggle inside the room and took him directly through the top of the leg. Reinhard stared in shock as Yang completed the first step, the second, and then crumpled with a gasp and a curse.

Time seemed to slow down. Reinhard saw Greenhill’s face freeze, pale and horrified. Then her gun was upraised, and the rate of fire increased. Someone gurgled in death spasms from inside the room, though Reinhard couldn’t see who. It could have been an accidental shot from one of their allies. Then Hilda was at Yang’s side, pulling him over her shoulder even as he clutched at the injury. “Come on!” she cried out. “We have to get out of the line of fire. Reinhard! Frederica!”

Out of the line of fire. Yes. Move. Instinct propelled Reinhard sideways, scooping up Yang’s other shoulder. “Greenhill!” he called out sharply, when she showed no signs of stopping her reckless fire. “Move or I’ll move you myself!”

They got along the wall and down the corridor, where they found that the elevator cable had been cut and the first explosive had taken out the stairs on this side. Reinhard stared the length of the corridor. It was possible that the other set of stairs was intact, but there was no way they would make it. Several of the attackers had noticed their attempted retreat and were starting to head out and block off the main hall.

Reinhard checked the stairs. There was no way down, but there was a relatively enclosed space between the rubble and the wall. Better than nothing. “Get him behind there,” he ordered sharply. “Cover us, Greenhill.”

She said nothing but raised her gun and began to fire again. Amid the scattered repeating fire of projectiles, Reinhard and Hilda lowered Yang, whose face was white and bloodless, to the ruined stairs. They jumped down after him, and Greenhill followed, then immediately knelt at Yang’s side. He was breathing shallowly, face tight with pain.

“Greenhill,” Reinhard barked. “You have to keep up a covering fire. You’re the best shot here.”

She shot him an agonized look. Yang’s eyes fluttered, but he managed to get a hand up onto her cheek. “Go,” he said breathily. “It’ll be okay.”

Pushing past Reinhard, she set herself up just high enough to see over the edge and began firing again. In turn, he and Hilda dropped to their knees beside Yang. There was a already a dark stain appearing on the front of Yang’s trousers. “Odin,” Reinhard breathed in heartstopping terror. “We have to put a tourniquet on him.” Once again, he cursed himself for leaving behind his cloak. One stray shot had put paid to their strategy and possibly Yang and the entire sedoretu as well. Even though Reinhard knew that Yang’s death would mean he could easily subjugate the Alliance—presuming _he_ survived—he suddenly knew that wasn’t something he could possibly wish for.

Hilda pulled off her tie and jacket. “I’ll do it,” she said tersely. “Make sure he doesn’t try to stop me.”

Reinhard had no chance to demand how the hell he could do that before she was already tugging Yang’s trousers open to access the wound. Desperate, Reinhard knelt beside his night husband, who gave him a weary but thankfully lucid look. “It’s all right,” he managed. “I’m not—I’m not delirious, I’m just—_fuck_—” Reinhard found he was holding Yang’s hand instinctively.

“You have to hang on,” he told him. “You can’t die.”

“I really, really don’t want to die,” Yang gasped out, pressing his face into Reinhard’s shoulder as Hilda tightened the cloth about his leg, working too quickly to worry about gentleness. “S-So—”

“You can’t die,” Reinhard repeated, looking for other words and finding none. “Please.”

“_Ahhhh_shit,” was the only response he got, as Hilda tightened the tourniquet further. His hand tightened around Reinhard’s, fingernails digging in, but Reinhard didn’t even feel the pain.

Yang’s walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Schönkopf to Yang, where the hell _are_ you? Over.”

Reinhard grabbed it in his free hand. “This is Marshal von Lohengramm. We are pinned down on the remains of the south stairs on the tenth floor. Admiral Yang is badly injured and requires immediate medical attention. Over.”

There was a pause, then the other man’s voice spoke again, grim and determined. “We’ll be with you in a minute, Lohengramm. Tell Yang to hang on. Out.”

“Your delightful Rosen Ritters are coming for us,” Reinhard told Yang, and got back a breathy gasp and a pained nod. Hilda had finished her work and now knelt loosely beside both of them. There was nothing left to do but wait for rescue, not even really enough room for him to help Greenhill lay down the necessary covering fire.

The joy of the adrenaline had drained from his system, leaving him cold and empty. This had never happened before, not in the middle of battle, and Reinhard simply didn’t know how to handle it. So he didn’t. He watched Greenhill’s back and held Yang’s hand and murmured words to him. He wasn’t even certain what he said, probably histories of the Empire. Yang looked up at him through slowly fluttering eyelashes, growing paler by the moment.

And then something about the gunfire stuttered. Greenhill rose a little, slowly, looking up over the edge, and then ducked back into their recessed pit. “It’s Captain von Schönkopf,” she said breathlessly. “He’s here.”

“Is it safe to stand up?” Reinhard demanded urgently.

She risked another look over, then turned back, looking vaguely ill. “Yes,” she replied.

“Good.” Reinhard scooped Yang up in his arms—he was so _small_, compared to Sieg, so light, that Reinhard half feared he would float away—and hurried over to the edge of the stairs. Looking over, he saw that the Rosen Ritters had indeed arrived, and the blood of their enemies was liberally painting the walls. Body parts were strewn across the hallway. Deserved, Reinhard thought, but he was too tired to feel truly gleeful.

“Captain!” Greenhill called, and one of the men turned to her, raising his bloody axe. Beyond him, Reinhard saw the black uniforms of the Imperial military also swarming into the hallway, but it was the Rosen Ritter who got there first, popping the visor on his helmet to reveal a sharp cheekboned face beneath wavy brown hair.

“Good timing, C-Captain,” Yang said weakly, barely raising his head from Reinhard’s shoulder.

“He took a direct hit to the leg,” Reinhard said, the words coming from a very long distance away. “There’s a tourniquet, but—”

“Give him to me,” Schönkopf said, quickly. “There’s a helicopter on the roof. We’ll airlift him to the nearest hospital.”

“We’re coming too,” Reinhard said fiercely, though he passed Yang over before clambering out of the pit and leaning back to give Hilda a hand.

“Sure, there should be room,” Schönkopf gave him the most unimpressed look Reinhard had fielded in a long time. “As long as you hurry.”


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are fewer explosions, and a great many heartfelt conversations.

He was swimming through a long, dark tunnel, trying to reach the light he could see at the top, shimmering weakly above the water. If he could just reach it, he could keep everyone safe. He wasn’t sure how he knew this or what it meant; it was just a strange, desperate conviction, the last hope dangled in front of someone slowly drowning.

Of course, he wasn’t drowning—despite the black water around him, pulling him down, he could breathe just fine. Or maybe not _just_ fine, he realized after a moment, but the tearing pain in his lungs didn’t feel like drowning. It just felt like pain. Someone was sobbing in his ear. Someone was saying his name.

Just a little higher—just a little more—it was so close. Safety and serenity and quiet. He tried to kick himself up the last few inches and actually felt the tips of his fingers break through the top of the water when his leg stopped working. Looking down, he saw that there was a widening dark stain across the top. 

_Oh,_ he thought. _That’s right. I was shot_. _Damn._

He looked up at the silvery reflection of the moon, just a few feet above him, and he wondered what would be on the other side of the thin curtain of dancing water. And then he sighed and looked back down at the depth of the black abyss, and he let himself fall.

~

Wen-Li lost consciousness in the helicopter, his head pillowed on Frederica’s lap, his leg held securely by Reinhard and Schönkopf. Later on, she never actually had much memory of how long the ride took. According to Hilda, it felt like half a moment; according to Reinhard, it felt like half an hour; according to Captain von Schönkopf, who was timing the entire thing, it was a little under seven minutes. For Frederica, it was just one long endless blur as she counted Wen-Li’s breaths, lost count, started grimly over again.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered in his ear.

When they arrived at the hospital, he was taken directly to urgent medical care. Everything was in disarray, and no one stopped Frederica, Reinhard, and Hilda from going in right along with him. Frederica pressed herself against the wall, trying to stay out of the way, as the doctors brought out one of the healing caskets and bags and bags of blood.

“Type O negative,” she told them, possibly more than once. She didn’t know how she knew it.

The doctors began to work on his leg, helped by the casket. Frederica couldn’t follow what was happening anymore, until a screaming alarm began to sound and someone said, “His heart’s stopped—we need—” She didn’t hear any more than that, because she was at his side, saying his name again and again. Beside her, Reinhard was—Reinhard had both hands on his face and was sobbing. She’d never seen an adult cry like that, desperate and wailing and lost, and she couldn’t seem to understand it. He’d hated Wen-Li, surely? He did—he did hate—

The alarm snapped off. “Breathing’s steadying,” said the calm woman doctor with the long black hair. “Bleeding’s stopped. He’s stabilizing.”

Inside the medical casket, Wen-Li stirred slowly, and his eyes fluttered open. “Damn it all to hell,” he groaned. “I really need some of Julian’s punch right now.”

~

While Yang Wen-Li recuperated in a hospital bed, Walter von Schönkopf relieved his feelings by taking Wolfgang Mittermeyer out for a drink. Although it was perhaps a little strange for the leader of the Rosen Ritters to be offering hospitality to the Storm Wolf, Walter felt that the entirety of his life over the past week had become increasingly surreal, so what was one more peculiarity?

Mittermeyer turned out to be a reasonably pleasant drinking companion, by Walter’s lights. He laughed at Walter’s jokes, bought the second round, and was only to ready to commiserate over the impossibility of having a commanding officer who would never act the way you wanted him to, despite being one of the most brilliant people in the galaxy.

“Can’t believe the bastard nearly got himself killed,” Walter said gloomily. “Fuck, that helicopter ride was horrible.”

“You’re not the only one who was worried,” Mittermeyer said gently.

“I would’ve thought you’d be ecstatic if he died,” Walter retorted bluntly, taking a long draw from his second whisky. “No more sedoretu, boom, suddenly the Empire is free to carve up the Alliance.”

“I don’t care if we take the Alliance,” Mittermeyer said slowly, staring down at his own drink. “I care about peace. A good friend pointed out to me that the sedoretu will do that—if we can get it to work.”

Walter raised an eyebrow at that.

“It has to be consummated,” Mittermeyer explained, still staring down at his drink. There was a flush across his cheeks, but Walter wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or not. “It’s the Alliance’s shield, so that’s fine, but the Empire? Not so fine. There’ll be a lot of noble sympathizers who’ll try to discredit it. It _has_ to be consummated.”

“Well, I can tell you that Yang and Greenhill have consummated their part all right,” leered Walter.

“And I doubt it’ll be hard to get Reinhard and Hilda together. Probably.” Mittermeyer stared off into the middle distance. “But what about the other two? That’s more important, anyway, for the treaty.”

“I don’t know anything about von Mariendorf,” shrugged Walter. “Greenhill seems to have her head screwed on straight, so she might figure it out. But good luck getting Yang and Reinhard in bed together. Yang’s the densest bastard I’ve ever met.”

“And Reinhard doesn’t have a clue how to have friends,” sighed Mittermeyer. “That’s the other thing, right? He hasn’t been the same since Sieg died—Admiral Kircheis.”

Walter nodded solemnly. “Useless bastards, both of them,” he mused. “I keep trying to get Yang to take more power, but he won’t. Goddamn stubborn asshole, he could already have the entire Free Planets Alliance in the palm of his hand.”

“He’s in a tricky position,” Mittermeyer said quietly. “Especially now.”

“Yeah,” Walter agreed. “I’d walk through fire for him. So would a lot of people. I thought he was going to die.” Had he said that already? He took another long drink. “Forget about the politics, he’s a good friend, and I don’t have a lot of those.” He could still see the waxy sunken look on Yang’s face during that awful helicopter ride.

“I know what it’s like to lose a friend,” Mittermeyer said, his voice strangely gentle. “I’m glad you didn’t lose him.”

“Yeah,” Walter agreed again, then clapped Mittermeyer on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, for an Imperial bastard.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Finishing his drink, Walter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know, I think I just want them to be happy. Rest of the universe will take care of itself if they’re happy.”

“Yeah,” Mittermeyer agreed quietly. “Very possibly.”

~

The hospital found them accommodations at a nearby hotel. Frederica declined to leave Yang’s side, and Hilda stayed behind to make sure all the paperwork was correctly sorted out and that they would be able to have a well-guarded meeting the following morning to discuss the presumed assassination attempt, but Reinhard left immediately, Hilda following him as soon as she could. She hadn’t like the look on his face. 

The first thing she saw when she opened the door was Reinhard’s form slumped over a desk. He looked so defeated.

“Marshal von Lohengramm, are you all right?”

It took a moment for him to respond, turning to her with all the light fled from his blue eyes. He was still wearing the same dirt-and-grime covered Imperial uniform, not that Hilda had had time to change her clothes either. “I’m—I don’t know.”

She crossed the room to him and realized he was staring down at his hands, still covered in streaks of flaking, rusty red. Yang’s blood. He hadn’t put the tourniquet on directly, but there had been so much blood. Hilda’s own shirt and trousers were still soaked with it. She wanted to shower and change and maybe sleep for ten hours or so, but there were more important things to be dealt with first.

“Marshal.” She bent over him, lightly touching his shoulder.

“What kind of a man can’t protect the things that are most important to him?” Reinhard asked, still staring down at his hands. “It…it…it was like…” He couldn’t seem to get the words out.

“Marshal Yang is recovering and will be fine,” Hilda said softly.

“I was enjoying myself,” Reinhard said, in a dull, sluggish voice, as if he could barely speak the words. “It was like a _game_. It’s always like a game. And then people die.” One hand clutched at the pendant around his neck. Hilda wondered if he even noticed that he was doing it anymore.

“Yang didn’t die,” she said insistently and gently. “Better you enjoy yourself than that you berate yourself.” He barely seemed to have heard her. “Reinhard,” she tried, the name fitting oddly on her tongue. “This wasn’t your fault. If we hadn’t been there, he might have—”

“If we hadn’t been here, there would have been no attack,” he snarled. “Hilda, I—god, I can’t—” Tears rising to his eyes now, again, although he wasn’t sobbing.

“Shhhh.” She rubbed his back in large, slow circles, and he turned toward her, catching her arms gently in his hands and pulled her down into his lap. A little surprised but hardly objecting, she let him, and then met him halfway in a desperate kiss. His hands roamed over her back, then clutched at her waist, and she opened her mouth and let him taste her, breathing out softly with delight.

As he pulled her closer against him, she hitched her hips against his, just a little, and pulled a desperate, broken groan out of him. She broke the kiss just enough to draw her lips along the side of his and across to his ear, in what she hoped was a seductive manner, so that she could murmur, “What do you need, my lord?”

His hands froze on her waist. “Hilda—no, I can’t.” She barely understood the words, but his meaning was clear enough when he pushed her off—gently enough, but still firmly.

“Did I do something wrong?” she blurted, feeling the shock of rejection rising in her throat like the pressure of a tightening noose. 

“No—no, it’s just—” He sank forward, head in his hands. “This isn’t what a sedoretu is supposed to be.”

“What?”

“Please—I shouldn’t. I—just leave me.”

His words didn’t make sense to her, but she could see clearly enough that somehow she’d blundered in a way that had snapped the cord of tremulous understanding between them, and she backed away, blinking hard to force back the tears that had sprung to her eyes.

Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it, trembling. What had she _done_? What could she possibly have done to make him react like that? All she wanted was for him to be happy. For him to rule the galaxy as he desired and deserved. She walked forward, stumbling over her own feet, and nearly ran right into Frederica Greenhill stumbling sleepily down the corridor.

“Miss von Mariendorf—Hilda?” Greenhill said, blinking sleepy eyes. “Yang’s out of danger, they said.” She managed an exhausted smile. “I thought I’d come back and get a little sleep before I went back to him.”

“It’s—I know. It’s not that.”

Greenhill peered at her, then put a hand on her arm. “Are you all right? You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” Hilda told her. “It’s nothing. I’ll be all right.”

With a soft nod, Greenhill took a step past her, towards the door of the room where Reinhard still was.

“Oh—wait—Marshal von Lohengramm is—”

Greenhill grimaced. “They only gave us one room again? _Really_? Ugh, I hate Trunicht.” She put her face in her hands. “I’ll go back to the hospital and have a nap at Yang’s bedside, I guess.” She looked at Hilda once more. “Why aren’t you in there then? I thought you didn’t like to leave him.”

The pain rose up in Hilda’s throat again. “He sent me away,” she blurted miserably. If she hadn’t been so tired, she would never have confessed to it, but it had been a long and pain-filled day. Her head was aching fiercely where she’d been injured earlier, though she knew it was nothing more than a bruise and a small cut.

Greenhill squinted at her. “Come outside with me for a smoke?” she said kindly. Hilda didn’t know how to handle the easy kindness of this woman who barely knew her. After a long moment, she finally nodded. “Good.”

Hilda followed behind her as she led them out the other end of the corridor and to a small balcony attached to the building. There were two sun-chairs set out on it, but it had rained earlier, and they were both wet, though by now the sky was clear and visible stars were shining above the glow of the city. It wasn’t much, compared to the vast swathe of chaotic brilliance you could see from space, but even those scattered dots gave Hilda a sudden, twisting, longing feeling inside her chest. She wanted to be back up there, standing at Reinhard’s side where she belonged.

Beside her, Greenhill leaned on the railing, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighter. She offered the pack to Hilda, who hesitated for a moment, then took one. She rarely smoked, but she felt a little like doing something reckless and self-destructive. Or maybe she just wanted something to keep her mind off of—everything.

The other woman cupped her hand around the lighter as Hilda brought the cigarette to her mouth and offered it, holding it for a moment until the little plume of smoke began to rise, then lit her own cigarette and put the lighter away. “It’s not my best habit,” she admitted, taking a long draw on her cigarette and blowing out a thin pale stream. “I picked it up in my early years with the military and gave it up again a few years ago, but it really has been an awful day.”

Hilda could only nod silently, taking up a position at Greenhill’s side and mimicking her action. For maybe a quarter of an hour, they smoked together silently, staring out at the city below and sky above. Then Greenhill broke the silence. “Would you like to talk about whatever it was?” she asked in her gentle voice.

Shivering a little, Hilda reached to pull her jacket more tightly around her and then remembered she wasn’t wearing it anymore. It had been tied around Yang’s leg and then presumably subsequently discarded sometime after they got him to the hospital. It seemed very odd to talk to Greenhill about this, but after a moment’s thought she concluded she would prefer to talk to someone she _didn’t_ know well, and maybe it felt like there was a little safety in the fact that Greenhill wasn’t even Imperial. “Perhaps,” she allowed.

Greenhill blew out some more smoke, then looked regretfully down at her cigarette, which was just a glowing stub, and flicked it into a nearby ashtray. Hilda followed suit, coughing slightly, though she wasn’t sure if it was from her inexperience with smoking or from the cold.

“Are you cold? Do you want to go inside?”

Hilda shook her head. There wasn’t anywhere else to go. Somehow, she didn’t even want to see the outer door of the room.

“Here.” Greenhill pulled off her own jacket and seated it about Hilda’s shoulders. “I’m not cold at all,” she said, in answer to Hilda’s embarrassed protests. “There,” she said, buttoning the top button. “Now you’re a soldier of the Alliance.” She gave Hilda a light, crinkling smile, and somehow Hilda found herself returning it. This was all wrong. She should be the one comforting Greenhill, shouldn’t she?

She took a deep, painful breath. “Marshal von Lohengramm was—was very perturbed by Admiral Yang’s close call,” she said through stiff lips. “I thought I could alleviate his distress by distracting him—” she felt her cheeks warm a little at the thought of his lips on hers, the way his body had arched up against her, “—but he—I did something wrong. I don’t know what. He sent me away.”

Greenhill’s large eyes were sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, laying a hand on Hilda’s arm. “I’m sure he just needs some time.”

“I know,” Hilda said miserably. “It shouldn’t hurt so much. I should just—I should just be glad I can serve him at all.”

A thoughtful tilt of the head. “Hilda—may I call you Hilda?”

“If you like.”

“Hilda, I know I don’t know as much about the Empire as you or Reinhard, or even Yang, but you’re not his servant anymore, you’re his wife.”

Hilda couldn’t stop a small flare of anger at that. “Not by choice!”

Quick intake of breath. “Of—of course. I’m sorry—”

She shook her head. “No, that—I understand the position you were in. I thought for sure Yang would fire on us, and when he didn’t—”

“We were ordered not to, but I don’t think Yang _wanted_ to destroy the ship,” Greenhill told her. “He didn’t want to kill you, but he didn’t want us to lose either. This wasn’t a good solution, but I think it might have been the best one.”

“If I had gone to Mittermeyer—if he had reached Heinessen earlier—” Not, perhaps, the most fair speculation to put onto Greenhill, but she didn’t get angry. She just smiled and shrugged.

“Things might have ended very differently, I agree,” she said. “But they didn’t, and I don’t think this is the worst way they could have gone. It’s funny to think we’re night-and-morning wives, though.” 

“Do you think that will last?” Hilda asked curiously.

“It lets us retain our sovereignty and our government and you get your brilliant star,” Greenhill said, though she didn’t directly answer the question. “It seems like it’s not such a bad thing, doesn’t it?”

“What do _you_ want?” Hilda found herself saying suddenly.

“What do _I_ want? Hmmm…” She tapped her lower lip thoughtfully. “I want to see Wen-Li smile every day for the next fifty years, at least. I think he’s owed that.”

For the first time, Hilda realized she hadn’t considered what the pre-existing relationship between Yang and Greenhill was. She’d just vaguely assumed he had found the most convenient female morning officer he could. “You and Yang…” she said slowly.

“We were supposed to be married after the Battle of Vermilion,” Greenhill said. “Instead, I suppose you could say we were married as the last act of it.”

Hilda felt her face flush hot. “_Oh_. I mean—I knew you were close, but I didn’t realize—I’m sorry.”

Greenhill’s smile widened a little. “We still had a perfectly lovely wedding night,” she said mischievously, and Hilda felt her ears heat up as well as her face. “It’s all right. I don’t mind sharing him as long as he’s happy. That’s really all I care about.”

The magnitude of the personal situation suddenly struck Hilda. She had been so preoccupied with trying to figure out the political ramifications that she hadn’t really emotionally digested the fact that this was a _marriage_. Political or not, she, Hildegarde von Mariendorf, was _married_ to Reinhard von Lohengramm. _And_ to the woman standing beside her.

“I need—” she took a sudden, deep breath of the cold night air, clutching at the iron railing of the balcony. “I think I need to sit down.”

Greenhill slipped a supportive arm around her waist. “Lohengramm’s alive, and you’re alive, and Yang’s alive,” she said softly. “It’s going to be okay. Come on, let me help you over to the chair. If you sit on the edge, I think you can avoid the puddle.”

Still trying to take deep breaths, she let Greenhill lead her over to the chair and help her sit down. “Sorry,” she said softly. “I’ll be all right, if you need to—do something else?”

“It’s fine,” Greenhill told her. “Being helpful takes my mind off of other things.”

Hilda nodded jerkily at that. Maybe that was _why_ she felt as if she hadn’t thought this through yet. “Would you mind sitting here with me for a little longer?” she asked. “I don’t think I want to be alone.”

“Not at all,” Greenhill responded. “I don’t think I want to be alone either.” She sat down beside her and, to Hilda’s surprise, put a cautious arm around her shoulders. “Let me show you my favorite constellations.”

As the night wore on, Yang slept fitfully in a hospital bed, Reinhard poured himself glass after glass of cheap wine, and Hilda and Frederica sat silently, watching the stars trace their slow and lonely paths across the sky.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a conversation between Reinhard and Yang.

Although his leg was aching, Yang was actually feeling decent. He had a cup of black tea at his elbow—sadly just hospital grade, but it was still tea—and a history book in his lap, and there were no expectations on him for at least a day, which meant he could enjoy the tea and reading material in peace. It was, taken as a whole, probably worth being shot. Although the doctors had made noises about reduced ability to use his leg, Yang thought he would look quite handsome with a cane, and what was one more ache, after all?

Frederica had been there when he woke up in the morning, but she had looked so wrecked that he’d sent her to get sleep in short order. The explanation that, once again, Trunicht had seen fit to only acquire one room for them made Yang feel quite uncharacteristically violent, but fortunately a note to Schönkopf seemed to have cleared matters up. Based on that exchange, he was also expecting Julian to stop by for a visit, so when someone knocked on the door, he looked up and called, “Come in!” cheerfully.

It wasn’t Julian. Reinhard von Lohengramm looked even more exhausted than Frederica had, his handsome face haggard, the dark circles beneath his eyes seeming to bleed into the blue, like storm clouds threatening at the horizon of a lucid sky.

Yang blinked at him. He had blurred memories of a hand holding his as he pressed his face into a black uniform, trying to handle the pain of the tourniquet being applied. Not to mention that he’d woken up embracing Reinhard just a day ago. That was peculiar. Somehow, he hadn’t really expected him to visit—he’d thought Reinhard would wait for him to be discharged. “Um, good afternoon, Marshal von Lohengramm,” he said, laying his book on the bedside table.

Reinhard gave him a stiff nod and then headed to the chair beside the bed. “May I?” he asked.

Yang acquiesced with a wave of his hand, though he couldn’t stop himself from throwing one more longing glance at his book. This did not seem likely to be a particularly short visit. Reinhard nodded again, still jerky, and sat down, then leaned forward, his eyes glittering intently.

“Why did you say that you didn’t want power?” he asked abruptly.

“Because I…don’t? Is this a trick question? I think a trick question was responsible for my worst exam score at the Academy, so I’m not much good at them.”

“How?” Reinhard demanded.

“Well, I thought about the question entirely the wrong way, so—”

“No, I mean how can you not want power?” He was leaning forward in his chair now.

“Power means responsibility.” Yang shrugged. “I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but I’m a very lazy man.”

“You’re ridiculously talented,” Reinhard snapped. “You beat _me_.”

“Tactically, not strategically,” Yang pointed out. “And we only really went head-to-head once. I’d say we’re probably evenly matched. Anyway, what does that have to do with wanting power?”

“Because—” Reinhard sprang to his feet, running a hand through his golden hair. “How can you want to _let_ that—you could make all of it run so much _better_! So _easily_! You could have legions of followers! You could do exactly what I’ve done, and yet you refused to fire on my ship, when it would have won you the war, because you were _ordered_ not to—I don’t—”

Yang rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t like following orders,” he said quietly. “As a matter of fact, I hate it. But I’m in the military, and I don’t think it’s a good thing for too much power to reside in a military structure. Historically, it hasn’t been a good thing.”

“You don’t have to follow orders anymore.” Reinhard whirled and bent over the bed, his face suddenly so close that Yang could feel hot breath on his mouth. “You’re part of a sedoretu. You can do anything you want, you could _change_ anything you want. Why can’t you _see_ that?”

“I see it perfectly well.” Yang winced, pain shooting through his leg as he shifted himself into a straighter position in the bed. “I just think that the Alliance needs to exist. There needs to be something that isn’t the Empire. It’s…” he bit his lip. “People need to be able to see their options, I guess you could say. Or at least that’s what I believe.” He shrugged. “And, like I said, I’m lazy.”

Reinhard shook his head and sank back into the chair. “I wish I understood,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “I _wish_ I knew how not to want everything. I wish I knew how to get that same thrill without nearly getting everyone around me killed.”

Swiping his thumb across his lower lip, Yang found he was smiling. “I like that you’re you?” he said. “You’re an extremely talented and very admirable man, Marshal von Lohengramm. If I’d been born in the Empire, I’m sure I would have wanted to fight under your flag.”

“Everyone I’m close to gets hurt,” Reinhard said bitterly, and, with a sudden strange cold shock, Yang realized that Reinhard was talking about _him_.

“I mean, the outcome here is that I get to sit in bed and drink tea while reading a book, which is my favorite thing to do,” he offered, though his stomach was still twisting in peculiar knots at the thought that the man he’d forced into an arranged political marriage was—what? Worried about him?

“Don’t,” snapped Reinhard.

“Um?” Yang asked.

“Don’t act as if this isn’t a big deal. Don’t act as if—as if Greenhill wasn’t terrified for you, as if no one would _care_ if you died!”

“I mean obviously people would care, I just—”

“Stop acting like you can’t see your own worth!”

Yang found himself running a weary hand through his own hair. “Am I really worth so much?” he asked, his voice starting very quiet but rising in volume as he continued to speak. “Do you know how many people’s lives I’m responsible for ending? Or ruining? Do you know—”

“_Of course I do!”_ Reinhard bellowed. Yang stared at him, mouth hanging open. Of course he did; of all the people in the world who _could_ understand, Reinhard might be the one who could the most. He found that his cheeks were heating up a little in embarrassment.

“Maybe we should try playing chess,” he said in a small voice, and it was Reinhard’s turn to stare.

“What?”

“Well, you’d get to face off against me again—and you’d beat me, I’m actually really terrible at chess. Plus it’s pretty difficult to kill anyone with a board game, although I’m certain someone, somewhere, has managed it.”

Reinhard opened and shut his mouth, and then he began to laugh. He laughed as heedlessly as he cried, Yang noticed, and the laughter was infectious; he found after a minute, he was giggling as well. “All right,” Reinhard said, after a moment. “Why not? Let’s play chess.”

And he reached out and ran a finger quickly through the front of Yang’s messy fringe of hair.

~

Three days after the attempted assassination attempt, the military police of the Free Planets Alliance in conjunction with a group of Imperial investigators led by Paul von Oberstein were able to trace the explosive devices used by the assassins to a small-time weapons dealer named Albert Hergenrother. They were able to obtain a warrant, and a thorough search of Hergenrother’s home revealed a well-hidden cellar containing a number of rare Terran artifacts. Hergenrother maintained his innocence and was vindicated when his youngest daughter—twenty-five-year-old Sarah Hergenrother—committed suicide rather than be questioned.

Oberstein’s report to Reinhard was that the assassination attempt had unquestionably been organized and implemented by Terraist extremists, and Reinhard’s response was immediate. He sent the Wahlen fleet to eliminate the church’s stronghold on their planet of origin; at that time, Ensign Julian Mintz and Officer Louis Machungo also accompanied them, with the stated goal of infiltrating the church ahead of the purge to see if they could discover any information that might be helpful in unmasking further undercover agents. If Yang Wen-Li was concerned about the danger his ward would be facing, he said nothing about it. In the meantime, preparations were well underway for the official sedoretu ceremony on Odin, which would also directly precede the coronation of Reinhard von Lohengramm and Hildegard von Mariendorf as Kaiser and Kaiserin, along with the necessary coronation of Yang Wen-Li and Frederica Greenhill as their morning-and-night consorts.

There was peace between the Empire and the Free Planets Alliance, although it was an uneasy peace.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Annerose attends a ceremony.

Annerose von Grünewald had spent little time at the Imperial court over the past months, and if it weren’t for the nature of the ceremony, she wasn’t certain she would have decided to return now, but—she didn’t feel right not attending the sedoretu ceremony, even if the marriage was solely political in origin. She hadn’t told Reinhard she would be there—it was better if he didn’t know—but she still felt it incumbent upon her to bear witness.

To her, the court had always been a place of glitter but no substance. There was still something of that feeling now, but there was also a buzz of something that felt like…true eagerness for change? She hadn’t spoken to many people, mostly keeping a low profile, but the conversations she had overheard had been more genuine than many that she had participated in when she was a lady of the court.

But now everyone quieted down as the royal procession began. The music started first, a typical pompous kind of march, although the musicians at least seemed energetic and excited. The doors at the end of the long chamber opened, and Annerose caught her first sight of the Alliance consorts. The woman, lithe and willowy but a little shorter than her companion, wore a dress of pale rose-gold that shimmered as she walked, turning slowly from pink to pale yellow as the angle of the light falling on it changed. Frederica Greenhill. About the only thing Annerose knew about her was her name, but she liked the look of those friendly brown eyes.

Beside her, the man whom all eyes were on. Yang Wen-Li, the hero of El Facil, the man who had singlehandedly saved the Free Planets Alliance from complete disintegration, and the only man to have repeatedly won against Reinhard. He was less imposing than she’d expected, ducking his head a little as he walked his morning bride down the aisle, helping himself along awkwardly with a neat, unobtrusive silver cane. The black suit he wore was fitted perfectly—surely the Imperial tailors had never been out of a job—but it still seemed to sit wrongly on his shoulders somehow. His hair was neat and flat, but there was a stray strand of it already escaping down across his nose, and even the little diamonds sewn in strategic locations across the jacket seemed to twinkle out of step with whatever rhythm there was to this event.

The consorts-to-be walked slowly along the central carpet and stopped on either side of the throne, touching palm to palm for a moment before backing away from one another. The music changed a little, paused—almost hesitant—and then swelled in tandem with the hiccupping anticipatory stutter of Annerose’s heart.

And there he was. His night bride, Hildegarde von Mariendorf, Annerose knew, and she was lovely in her dark dress with diamonds spilling down from the broad straps like strands of the galaxy, but Annerose thought she paled beside the radiance at her elbow. Reinhard seemed simultaneously to be the origin of and commanding all the light in the room. His hair, starting to grow long, cascaded down across his shoulders, and the white cloak fluttering over the golden suit was like a sun’s flickering corona. He was light, energy, the future. Annerose smiled, brushing the tears back from her eyes, because there he was, her little brother, arrayed in all the resplendence that he deserved.

Reinhard and Hildegarde touched palms as well, then stood back, Hildegarde falling into place beside Yang and Reinhard beside Frederica. All four of them waited patiently as the officiants stood forward, almost invisible in their plain grey suit and plain grey dress.

The four participants were asked what they brought to the relationship and responded according to the simple, ancient vows. “I bring the dawn,” Greenhill said first. “I bring the morning,” Reinhard followed, voice echoing throughout the hall. “I bring the twilight,” Hilda, and, finally, “I bring the night,” Yang, almost stammering over his words.

One by one, each pair stood forward and repeated their specific vows to one another. Annerose stopped paying attention to the specific words, and, instead, found herself placing more emphasis on the pair-to-pair interaction. Yang and Greenhill stood close together, speaking tenderly and in a way that made it seem as if they’d forgotten about the whole room. There was clearly some awkwardness between Hildegarde and Reinhard, though they both hid it well. The declarations of morning and night siblinghood—Yang and Hildegarde, Reinhard and Greenhill—went fine, although Yang stumbled over his words a little again. Greenhill and Hildegarde were—friendlier than Annerose had expected, speaking their vows to each other with a soft undercurrent of understanding springing up between them. And then—

And _then_.

Reinhard and Yang stepped forward. Annerose wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Yang already wasn’t living up to her expectations; she’d been picturing either a hardened soldier or someone a little more like Reinhard. But there was something here, and it wasn’t in Yang that she saw it. It was in the way Reinhard’s furrowed brow smoothed just a little, the way he put out his hand just a half instant before the officiants instructed him. The way, as he finished the vows, he reached out swiftly and tucked that little errant strand of dark hair securely behind Yang’s ear. Annerose’s hand was on her mouth, because she never thought she’d ever see Reinhard treat another person the way he’d treated Sieg.

“Beneath the sights of Eostre and Aurvandil, we pronounce this sedoretu binding,” the officiants chorused. The man bowed and the woman curtseyed, and they split apart to allow four small children, half in white outfits and half in black outfits, to make their careful way up the central aisle. Each one held a pillow with a crown nestled securely on it. Each one stopped in front of one of the members of the sedoretu.

Yang and Greenhill knelt first, Yang not without a grimace and a flail as he tried to arrange the cane at his side. They each received a circlet with a small inset gem —Greenhill’s gold with emerald, Yang’s silver with sapphire. Neither of them looked very comfortable; Yang reached up as if to rub his hand through his hair and then stopped, looking chagrined and confused.

Then it was Hildegarde’s and Reinhard’s turns. They both knelt, much more regally than the other two, and received the larger crowns. Hildegarde’s was a thick silver circlet with crescents instead of points, while Reinhard’s had a golden sun rising from its center. As the sedoretu rose to its feet, Annerose couldn’t tear her eyes away from his figure—golden, shining, drawing all light toward himself. He’d largely succeeded in his goals, but there was no longer a red-haired shadow hovering at his shoulder to keep him steady. Instead—Annerose’s eyes slid to the unimposing figure at his side. Instead there was just this awkward bundle of messy hair and a limp, whose circlet was already slipping towards the side, dangerously close to falling over his ear. And yet the tenderness with which Reinhard had regarded him—

Annerose had intended to depart directly after the end of the ceremony, to minimize the chances she would accidentally run into Reinhard. Now it seemed she had another objective: she was going to have to meet Yang Wen-Li.

~

Letting out a long breath, Frederica leaned her head back against the door of the bathroom. She just needed a few minutes by herself, and, thankfully, after some back and forth, their Imperial hosts had graciously agreed to allow her and Wen-Li to change out of their absurdly luxurious outfits into their Alliance uniforms. She sank down on the edge of a gilded bathtub and put her face in her hands, taking long, deep breaths. This sort of social event wasn’t really her forte, any more than it was Wen-Li’s. Hopefully they could tag-team it a little.

Well, at any rate, it was time to get out of this dress. She reached behind and tried to tug at the zipper. A moment later, she was patting her hands down her back, because where _was_ that damn zipper?

It took her several minutes to give up and confess defeat and wasn’t _that_ embarrassing. She couldn’t even get out of the damn dress. Damn, damn, _damn_. Well, she’d need some help, then. Wen-Li could probably find it—he might not be the most competent person in the world when it cames to things that weren’t history or military tactics, but he’d have the advantage of not actually _being_ in the thing. Throwing her uniform over her arm, she unbolted the door and looked out into the hallway. Even up here on the third floor of the palace, there were little knots of people, and as soon as she stepped back out, they began drifting in her direction.

A bit frantically, Frederica took off for the stairs at a rapid trot, nodding at the occasional person who tried to an address a remark to her, and scanning around her, trying to find Wen-Li. Where the hell was he?

She was on the second-floor landing, trying to fend off an Imperial officer who was talking at her in a dry, monotonous voice about something that was probably important, but that she really didn’t have the attention for, when she spotted a familiar short figure in a glittering midnight-black dress. “Hilda!” she called. “Excuse me,” she said to the Imperial officer, sliding past him and half-running down the stairs.

Hilda turned to look up at her, brushing her light curly hair out of her eyes. “Hilda, can I borrow you for just a moment?” Frederica said, taking her hand. “So sorry,” she said to the crowd of gawking Imperials who were surrounding them. “I, er, sedoretu business.”

As they made it to the top of the stairs, Hilda laughed a little bemusedly. “I’ve never seen some of those people so taken aback,” she said. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“I think you can call me Frederica at this point. Anyway, I can’t seem to find the zipper on this dress—do you think you could help me out a little?”

“Oh! Yes, of course. I’m not much good with dresses myself.” She flashed a longing look at one of the nearby suits. “Men have it so much easier,” she sighed.

“I doubt Wen-Li is particularly happy about his current outfit either,” Frederica said. “But on the whole, I don’t disagree.” She led Hilda back to the bathroom and shut the door with a sigh of relief, then presented her back.

Hilda’s hands moved across it softly, and she made a puzzled humming noise. “Where is this zipper?” she asked.

“Um,” said Frederica. “I…I don’t know.”

“Are you certain it has one?”

“I mean—the getting dressed process was something of a whirlwind,” she admitted. “But it’s got to fasten somehow, I know they tightened it somehow.”

“Hmmm. Turn around again.” With a sigh, Frederica did, maybe a little faster than Hilda had expected, because she ended up with Hilda’s hands seated just above her waist, and Hilda blinking at her with surprised blue eyes.

For a long instant, they stared at each other, and Frederica noticed that Hilda’s cheeks were flushed, probably from the heat and excitement of the overall event. “Ah, um,” Hilda said. “I’m not sure if I ever thanked you properly for—for staying with me that night.” Her hands tightened a little on Frederica’s waist, and before Frederica knew what she was doing, she had put her hands on Hilda’s shoulders.

“It was—good,” she said softly. “To have someone else there. Not to be alone.”

“Yes,” Hilda agreed, and her hands were sliding up Frederica’s back, and she was leaning forward, and then, somehow—Frederica wasn’t sure how—they were kissing. Hilda’s upper lip was sweaty, and Frederica tasted the salt of it as she sighed into the other woman’s mouth. Hilda’s hands tightened on her back, drawing her closer; Frederica parted her lips, deepening the kiss into something wet and open-mouthed. Her hand slid up the side of Hilda’s throat, feeling the rapid beat of her pulse.

Hilda kissed with more urgency and abandon than Wen-Li did—and as soon as the thought occurred, Frederica broke the kiss and stepped back. Hilda was doing the same thing, her cheeks even more flushed than they had been a moment ago. “I’m—sorry,” she got out. “Damn. I didn’t mean to—”

Frederica wanted to reassure her, but she also needed to reassure herself. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she said, in a voice that she hoped was soothing. “We’ll just—perhaps I should talk to Wen-Li before we—um—before—anything else—”

“I’ll go find Reinhard,” Hilda said, backing away. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” She groped for the door behind her and half staggered backward with it, out into the hallway.

As the door shut again, Frederica breathed out, a long, harsh breath, and ran both hands through her hair, nearly knocking her circlet to the ground. Now she needed to find Wen-Li more than ever, and she _still_ hadn’t gotten out of the damn dress.

~

Hilda covered her mouth with both hands as she hurried away from the bathroom. What had she been _thinking_? Well—she hadn’t, she could admit that freely enough. She hadn’t been on guard against such a thing, because why would she have thought she needed to be? _Did_ she need to be? They were part of a sedoretu, after all. But the entire arrangement wasn’t real—she’d thought.

Thoughts still racing, she ducked around Reuenthal, slipped her skirts to the side of Müller, and managed to duck through the thickening crowd of admirals to the center where, as she’d hoped, she found Reinhard. He was flushed with excitement, looking lovelier than she’d ever seen him in any circumstance other than a battle, and at any other time, she would have hesitated to interrupt him, but this was too important.

“Reinhard, please, may I talk to you?” she said, in her haste forgetting to address him more formally. He blinked at her in surprise, but nodded.

“Just a moment, gentlemen,” he said, and then he let her tug him away down the corridor to the nearest empty room, which turned out to be a small but nicely furnished guest room. There was a couple already occupying it, sitting very close to one another on the bed, but a single glance from Reinhard sent them scuttling out into the hallway. Hilda decided she could feel guilty about that later.

“I kissed Greenhill,” she blurted out, as the door shut behind them, leaving her alone with Reinhard. His eyebrows arched a little higher into his hair. “I—I don’t know how it happened, I wasn’t thinking, she’s just been so kind, and—and—”

“Hilda, slow down.” He touched her arm lightly. “It’s hardly a problem. She’s your morning wife, isn’t she? It’s a sedoretu. You don’t have to come running to me to ask for my permission.”

She stared at him. Why the sudden, choked feeling in her throat? “It’s…it’s fine?” she repeated.

“I admit, I wasn’t expecting you two to become so close so quickly, but—”

“It’s fine for me to kiss _Frederica_, but it’s not fine for me to kiss _you_?”

A frown was beginning to dawn on his face, and he ran a hand through his lengthening mop of hair. “That’s different.”

“Different! How!”

Crossing his arms, Reinhard looked away. “Sedoretus are supposed to be among equals, Hilda! You were…offering yourself. I didn’t even know if you really _wanted_ to, you just thought I needed…”

Pain was rising in her throat again, even though it wasn’t fair, even though she had no reason to be taking this out on him. But this whole weird, thorny situation had been wearing down her last nerve, and here she was, and she wanted—she wanted—she _needed_— “What about what _I_ need?”

He threw his hands in the air. “Just tell me!”

In another lifetime, she didn’t think she would ever have been so bold, but here and now, with the raw tension charging the air between them—somehow, she was fisting her hands in the front of his elegant suit and pulling him against her, and the next instant their lips were on each other. Reinhard gasped sharply, and she stepped back and kept pulling until her back was against the wall, until she was snug between him and it. One of Reinhard’s slim hands caught her wrist, and he pulled back, eyes dark and dilated.

“You’re sure?” he asked hoarsely.

“_Damn_ you,” Hilda said thickly. “Don’t _stop_.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yang has an interesting conversation, and Hilda and Reinhard reach an understanding.

At least the alcohol was nice. Yang sipped from a fluted crystal glass that probably cost as much as his yearly salary, tried not to think about whether he _had_ a yearly salary now, and kept a sharp eye out for anyone likely to intrude on the tiny curtained alcove he’d managed to find. The window-seat had a cushion on it, and he could see outside to the rising moon, and he could sit here without drawing attention to himself, which was probably about as much as he could ask for out of this evening. He’d even managed to remember his cane, instead of leaving it leaning against a table for the five hundredth time and then nearly falling over.

Someone twitched at the curtain, and he groaned under his breath. So much for peace. But the young woman didn’t draw it back; instead she slipped inside the alcove. “I see you’ve found my favorite hiding spot,” she said, giving him a gentle smile.

“And here I was hoping I was the first person to discover it,” he sighed, though he managed a not too disingenuous smile back.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said contritely. “I just wanted so much to meet you.”

“I’m afraid I’m not really very interesting,” Yang told her. “Everyone thinks I am, but I’m terrible at conversation. I’ll probably offend you. Accidentally, I mean.”

She hovered, then got onto the seat across from him. “I don’t think I’d really mind.”

He expected her to say something else, but instead she leaned her head gently on the glass and stared out of the window. With a mental shrug, Yang went back to sipping at the delicious wine, trying to make it last. When it ran out, he would be faced with the terrible choice of either giving up his safe hiding spot or not having wine anymore.

“Miracle Yang.” She smiled, and Yang mentally braced himself. “You don’t look like much.”

“I try.”

“Hm.” Her blue eyes, shrewder than he’d realized at first, were resting on him again, and there was something oddly familiar about them. “And yet you’ve singlehandedly defeated the greatest general of the Empire and forced him into an alliance by marriage.”

“Well, I didn’t want to kill him.” Yang rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, nearly unseating his damn circlet again. “Look, everyone loses sometimes, and a single matchup doesn’t really tell you much about skill overall.”

“Why didn’t you want to kill him? Wouldn’t that have solved all your problems?”

Yang squirmed, taking a gulp of wine. “I don’t like killing people,” he said evasively.

“Yet you’ve killed plenty of Imperial soldiers.”

He stared down at his reflection in the dark red liquid. “I know.”

“So why is Reinhard different?”

Reinhard. Not Kaiser Reinhard. Not even Marshal von Lohengramm. Interesting. “Well, for one thing, I _could_ avoid killing him. Without actually losing anything too important.”

“Your freedom?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t have much to begin with. At least now they can’t order me around.” Oh dear, that last swallow had finished off his glass. With a very regretful sigh, he set the empty glass down and leaned his head against the window. “And I do admire him. Greatly. I’ve told him so. If things had been different, I’d gladly have followed his banner.”

There was a thoughtful pause. “You’re a strange man, aren’t you?”

“A lot of people seem to think so. My ward would definitely agree with you.” He gave her a smile that he suspected came out a lot more tired than he’d intended.

“Your ward?”

“Julian. His parents were killed in the war. And now he’s a soldier, too, just like me…” Yang pressed his face to the glass, feeling cold melancholy replacing the warmth of the wine. He needed more wine.

“But the war is over now, isn’t it?”

“God, I hope so.” He sighed, his breath misting on the glass. “I don’t know. I’m a cynic, and I can see a thousand ways this could go wrong, but—maybe it won’t. I hope it won’t.” He chuckled. “I hope all four of us live to a ripe old age and that I get to hide in a library for a very long time.”

“A _library_?”

“I’m a historian—well, I wanted to be a historian. It didn’t exactly work out.”

She made a soft, surprised, interested little noise. “You really are a very strange man.”

“Have I offended you yet?”

“No, I’m afraid you’ve done rather the opposite.” When he looked at her again, she was smiling. “My name is Anna, by the way. Pleased to meet you.” To his surprise, she reached out and ruffled his hair, almost proprietarily. “Anyway. I’ve rudely intruded on your quiet time, so I’ll be going now.”

She slipped out from between the curtains again before he could figure out if he was supposed to respond. A few minutes later, a slim pale hand offered him a bottle. “This one’s very good,” she said, and then, as he took it slowly, she was gone again.

“Hm,” said Yang. Why had she seemed so familiar? And what exactly had she been trying to find? He’d have to think about it. “Well, new friend,” he said to the bottle. “Shall we become better acquainted?”

~

“_Odin_,” Reinhard said heartfeltly as he thrust into Hilda, her ankles tightening around his waist, her nails scratching at his naked back. “_Hilda_, Hilda, _aaaaah_—” She was slick and hot around his cock, and her thighs on his hands were silky-smooth. She was rocking her hips back enthusiastically against him despite the fact that the only measure of stability she had was the wall at her back.

“I’ve—I’ve wanted this—” Hilda gasped, breaking off to moan into his mouth as he bent forward and kissed her, “—for so damn long.”

She was still in her dress, and the little diamonds glittering on the bodice pressed almost painfully into Reinhard’s bare chest as he fucked her. He wanted to be able to touch more of her soft, warm skin, but he didn’t want to pull back. “Hilda,” was the only thing he could get out of his lips again, his overwhelmed brain not really capable of processing much else.

“Oh—_ohhh_—” she gasped. “Rein—hard—_yes_—” Her voice vibrated through his mouth, and she was all around him, hot and wet, angry but willing. He wished he could feel more, fall harder, but it was enough for now, the smell of her sweat beneath the hair spray and perfume they’d covered her with before the ceremony, the taste of her soft lips and the way her tongue pressed into his mouth, sliding beneath his, tasting everything, as she gave up on words and just moaned and made soft breathy noises. The curve of her thighs firm in his hands, the muscles in them trembling as she tried to move in tempo with him.

He broke the kiss so he could lean his forehead against hers and just breathe as he slowed his thrusts a little, so he could feel the slow slide of her around him, drawing him on and on, with the pleasure building tight in the base of his belly.

“Faster, _damn_ you,” Hilda gasped, and for once in his life, Reinhard von Lohengramm obeyed someone else’s orders.

It was abruptly too much, and he gave one final gasp as his vision filled momentarily with white, and he climaxed inside her, continuing to stand and hold her up mainly by sheer force of will. Trembling, carefully, he said, “Hilda—I’m going to put you down,” then, as she nodded blearily, he set her onto her feet and stepped back, groaning again as he slipped out of her. She was looking at him with a peculiar expression, halfway between awe and petulance. “You haven’t—yet—have you,” he said, and she shook her head, a furrow deepening in between her eyes, before she tried, “It doesn’t—really—matt—”

He put a finger on her lips before she could finish. “Please don’t be stupid. I asked what _you_ needed. Just a moment.” He pulled the now very creased trousers up, tucked himself back in, and refastened them, and then he went to his knees in front of her and lifted her skirt.

“Reinhard, you’re not—” she stopped talking as he put his mouth on the silky smooth curve of her inner thigh and gently kissed his way up along it. When he reached the center and opened his mouth across her clit, she gave a breathy gasp, and he smiled a little as he lapped gently at the edge of her entrance. “Oh, _god,_” Hilda said. What a shame his mouth was full, or he would have been able to treat that statement as it deserved.

Still. He massaged her inner thighs with his thumbs as he mouthed over her clit and tongued across the rest of the nearby sensitive area, tasting the bitter salt of his own seed but also, underlying it, a musk that was somewhere between intoxicating and comfortable. An odd combination, but not unpleasant.

Her thighs trembled under his hands as she hitched her hips helplessly beneath him, and it wasn’t long before she gave a loud squeak, and her hand twisted violently in his hair. He felt her twitching underneath his mouth and stayed like that for a long few moments, before pulling back with a sigh and somewhat inelegantly flailing to find his way out of the skirt.

He knelt back, stretched, and then stood up as Hilda leaned against the wall and panted. “There,” he said, standing up with a soft smirk. He felt warm and pliant and almost calm for the first time in a long time. Hilda smoothed down her skirts a little, stepped forward, and put her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. Startled, he let his arms fall around her.

“We should—ah—perhaps—” He gingerly patted her on the head. “Go back out, I suppose. I doubt they’re done celebrating out there.”

For a moment longer, she held him, and he didn’t move away. Then she stepped back and nodded. “Of course,” she said. “And—Reinhard—thank you.”

~

Frederica found Wen-Li tucked away in a curtained alcove with half a bottle of alcohol in his hand, staring out the window. He looked up rapidly as she tweaked the curtain open. “Don’t worry, it’s just me,” she told him, sitting beside him with a soft sigh. “I have been looking all over for you.”

“Sorry.” Wen-Li tipped his head back against the corner of the window and the wall. “I admit I was trying to be hard to find.”

“No wonder.” She drew her heavy skirts up around her as she settled onto the window-seat beside him, and he gave her a mildly perplexed look.

“Weren’t you going to change?”

She rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t figure out how to get it off. Hilda tried to help, but we got a bit distracted.” Her cheeks warmed again at the thought of the kiss in the bathroom. “She kissed me. Or I kissed her. I’m not sure which.”

Wen-Li smiled. “Was it nice?” he asked dreamily.

“Y-Yes. You don’t mind?” She put out a hand and found his, and he squeezed it.

“We’re part of a sedoretu and likely to be so for the foreseeable future. And I keep thinking this might be a huge mess, but it could be much worse.”

“It could,” Frederica agreed, laying her head on his shoulder. “You’re safe.”

“Mmm.” Wen-Li ran a hand softly through her hair, then offered her his wine-bottle. “A new friend,” he said. She gave him a mildly exasperated look but took it and sipped. She had to admit it tasted better than the usual cheap alcohol.

“I’m tired,” she murmured.

“Then sleep.” Wen-Li shrugged. “I suppose there’s probably something else we should be doing, but…well…only one person has found me here so far.”

There probably was something else they should be doing, but she was very tired. Maybe she would just rest her eyes for a little. If it was really so important someone would probably come and find them, after all. And she had had so little quiet time with her husband since their marriage. Yes, just a little while couldn’t be so bad.

~

Reinhard navigated his way around the outside of the gathering, slipping between the laughing officers and newly appointed bureaucrats. _You can’t run an Empire without a bureaucracy_. Either Hilda or Oberstein had said that, and they were probably right, although it didn’t mean that he had to like it. At least right now he was feeling almost cheerful, for the first time in a long time. Both pleased with the way he’d handled the encounter with Hilda—this time, anyway—and amused that Yang had apparently managed to thoroughly hide himself away somewhere.

He was almost beginning to think of it as a game. Where could the man have gotten to? A brilliant tactician like Yang? Somewhere most people wouldn’t look but that was probably not far away, so if anyone tried to call him on it, he could truthfully say he hadn’t been _trying_ to hide. And it would have to be somewhere obvious, because he could hardly have had much time to search. 

_ This time I’m going to outmaneuver you, Yang Wen-Li._ He scanned the outside of the room. The heavy curtains had been drawn, shutting out the darkness of the night sky, which Reinhard personally thought was a pity. But sometimes you had to hide from the vastness of space, he supposed, particularly if it wasn’t something you confronted on a daily basis.

Yang wouldn’t hide, though, would he? Which meant it was _obvious_ where he would be, almost too easy. Reinhard simply had to decide which window, and for a proper challenge, he should do it on the first try. Not the main window, probably; one of the ones closer to the side. A further scan noted that one curtain in particular was lying a little out of kilter, and, cinching it, it was the one nearest to the drinks table. Hiding a smile, Reinhard strode over and pulled the curtain back gently.

He’d been right. Yang was leaning back against the corner of the window and the wall, his face relaxed in sleep, a half-empty bottle of wine set on the floor beside him. Greenhill was with him, also asleep, her head pillowed in his lap. He had one hand in her hair, the other lying loosely beside him. As if in a dream, Reinhard reached out, consumed by a sudden strange to desire to touch one or both of them. But just before his hand reached Yang’s shoulder, he looked up at the window, and for an instant, he swore he could see the reflection of a thin, pale face framed by golden hair turned silver by the dark glass.

Just a moment—their eyes met, and the next instant she was gone. Reinhard whirled, but there was nothing. Annerose wasn’t there. She probably never had been. It was his own imagination that had painted her there, and with his stomach tightening unpleasantly, he knew why. He’d been letting himself relax—he’d been letting himself slip towards contentment, when he hadn’t done as he’d promised. He hadn’t conquered the universe yet. Not truly. And he couldn’t, for as long as the sedoretu remained intact.

With the pain rising into his throat, he let the curtain fall again, squeezing his eyes shut. But as soon as he closed them, all he saw was blue-grey eyes with the light fading from them, the red of his hair streaming from the injury in his throat. A muscle twitched in Reinhard’s jaw, and then he half-turned back, because that image led immediately to the image of Yang’s face, pale and bloodless and wracked with pain. Turning on his heel, Reinhard strode for the door of the hall, nearly running into Hilda as he did so.

“Rein—” she started, but he stepped carefully past her, barely even looking at her, because he had to get outside, he had to get somewhere with _air_, he just had to get _away_—

He made it out onto the terrace of the palace at least, staring up at the twinkling, far-off stars, so faded and unclear through the planet’s thick atmosphere. He pulled out the locket, clutching it in his fist, feeling the warmth of the metal and wishing there was real life inside. _Sieg_, he thought miserably. _What on Odin do I do now?_


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who weeps for Westerland?

Slowly, as the night wore on, sleep spread across the cosmos. Yang and Frederica remained hidden behind their curtain, sleeping almost sweetly until the alcohol began to recede from Yang’s systems, letting the nightmares start to creep in. Hilda was the only one of the four to actually sleep in the royal apartments; Reinhard, when he finally slept, just before dawn, did so in the shuttle that had brought them to the event. Wolfgang and Eva Mittermeyer slept curled in each other’s arms, while Oscar Reuenthal drank until four am and then went back to his home and slept alone.

Paul von Oberstein, who had frowned throughout the sedoretu ceremony and spent most of the night trying to decide on how best to maneuver his Kaiser through the new circumstances, was finally coaxed to bed with a particularly sad-eyed whine and slept quite comfortably cuddled up to his favorite canine. Annerose dozed in the carriage that carried her back to the mountains. Most of the rest of the guests had dispersed by two or three in the morning.

Although the other planets were not, of course, on the same day/night cycle as Hauptplanet Odin, there were others who slept at near enough the same time, or who at least fell asleep on the same date. Walter von Schönkopf, Dusty Attenborough, and Alex Cazerne watched the broadcast of the sedoretu ceremony from a bar in Heinessen, then went back to a fleet that felt naked and empty without its leader at the helm and slept fitfully. Job Trunicht did not bother to watch most of the ceremony; he simply switched it on and off near the end and then went to bed and slept the sleep of a calm and righteous man.

Julian Mintz tossed and turned in a bunk on Terra, wondering why he felt so strange. He’d been late to dinner and there hadn’t been much food left, but it wasn’t that he felt hungry, exactly. His skin felt hot and tight, and he was starting to cough, but his thoughts tended to spin away when he tried to hold onto them. _Yang_, he thought. _Frederica. Stay safe_. They’d be fine, but he still worried. How many members of the sedoretu knew how to cook for themselves?

One man did not sleep. Adrian Rubinsky was far too hard at work to bother with such trifling matters as rest. The first newspaper article had to be published as the galaxy was waking up, a little hungover from the night before, when the sedoretu and Reinhard, especially, were at their most vulnerable.

With a vulpine smile, he finished typesetting the title and regarded it with a critical eye. _Who Weeps for Westerland?_

~

Oberstein woke up to soft whuffles and a cold nose in his face. He lay and blinked for a few minutes, absently scratching Brun’s head and murmuring soft nonsense words into her ears. Then he yawned and sat up, stretched, and slowly went over to get her food and water bowl as she trailed happily behind him. Due to the smallness of the room, her tail made a steady _thwap-thwap-thwap_ noise against the walls and the furniture.

As he waited for her to finish her breakfast and for his coffee to brew, Oberstein flicked on his little television, which was set to the same little Fezzanese news station he always watched so that he could keep a finger on the pulse of current events. “—the recent scathing article, published on Heinessen, is expected to raise tensions between the Empire and the Alliance once again.”

Behind the newscaster, a grey-haired woman probably in her late forties, there was a star-map with a red circle and arrow drawn onto it and a picture of a huge thermonuclear explosion. Oberstein recognized the location on the map, and he took a deep breath and stood up.

Brun whined, butting against his knee with her nose, and he knelt in front of her. “Sorry, girl,” he told her. “I have to get to the palace as quickly as possible. I’ll walk you later.”

~

Yang didn’t usually have hangovers, but he also didn’t usually go through three-quarters of a bottle of wine that he later discovered was twice as strong as he’d expected. Now he was staggering towards what he hoped was a kitchen for the express purpose of finding some tea to combat the raging headache he’d woken up with. Frederica had still been sleeping peacefully, and he hadn’t liked to disturb her, so he’d gently moved her head out of his lap and gotten dizzily to his feet.

He was just opening to door to what he sincerely hoped was the kitchen when someone called his name. Yang winced, putting a hand to his head, and took another half-step, hoping that whoever-it-was would think he hadn’t heard them. No such luck. His name was called again, and then someone brushed his shoulder to get his attention.

Squinting against the lights that were definitely too bright—someone needed to turn down the sun—Yang turned with a defeated sigh to find Admiral Oberstein standing beside him.

“Do you know where Marshal von Lohengramm is?” Oberstein asked with no other preamble. Yang shook his head, shielding his eyes. “Fine. I need you to help me find him.”

“I need some tea,” Yang croaked.

Oberstein leaned past him into what was definitely seeming like the kitchen and said, “Please make the royal night consort a cup of tea and bring it to him,” then steered him back in the other direction. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, not sounding remotely sorry. “This is important.”

Yang sighed heavily. “I don’t know my way around very well, and I have a blinding headache,” he pointed out. “I’m really not sure I’m going to be much use.”

All he got in response was a grunt. With yet another sigh, Yang gave himself up to the inevitable and pressed a hand to his temple quite hard. It relieved the interminable pounding only slightly.

They found Reinhard two rooms down. At first Yang thought he was hungover as well, or maybe still drunk, because he was slumped in the center of a particularly luxurious couch with his head in his hands. Then the tinny sound of the television reached his ears, and Oberstein strode across the room and snapped it off. “Kaiser,” he said.

“I didn’t tell you to turn that off,” Reinhard said, but his voice sounded dull and colorless.

Continuing to massage his temples, Yang sat down on the back of the couch. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Westerland,” Reinhard said softly.

“That’s…a planet, right?” Yang wracked his brain. He should probably know this one, but, in his defense, it was unpleasantly early, and he was ferociously hungover.

“Not anymore,” Reinhard said soberly.

“Ah.”

“The planet still exists,” Oberstein objected. “It’s simply…uninhabited.”

Reinhard shot him a sizzling look. “My fault,” he snarled.

“Mine.” Oberstein bowed his head. “I deliberately did not give you the information to act in a timely fashion. And I still believe it was the correct course of action.”

The door slammed open. Yang winced and took a minute to control the swell of pain before he looked up. It was Hilda, whose eyes went to the switched-off television and then back to Reinhard. “Kais—my lor—Reinhard—” she got out. “Are you—”

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” Reinhard snapped, with a flash of anger, before the awful slumping droop of his shoulders took over again. Hilda swooped in behind him immediately, then hesitantly touched a hand to his shoulder, which he didn’t quite shake off.

“It’s all right,” she said soothingly. “It’s—”

The door banged open _again_. Yang tipped his head sideways in agony to see that this time it was Reinhard’s two best Admirals, Mittermeyer and Reuenthal. “Kaiser—” Mittermeyer started, and Yang got up, quite slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

“Will everyone _please_ stop slamming the door,” he pleaded. “And someone tell me what exactly is going on. It sounds like whatever happened to Westerland isn’t exactly recent. What happened this morning?”

“Only what I deserve,” Reinhard put in, covering his face with his hands.

Yang sighed. It was Oberstein who answered, after another moment. “The Fezzanese papers ran an article on the Westerland Massacre, suggesting that Kaiser Reinhard could have stopped it if he’d wanted—”

“I _could_ have—”

“Reinhard.”

Yang chewed on his lip as Hilda tried to comfort Reinhard again, although it didn’t look as if she was likely to succeed any time soon, trying to think this through. “Hmm,” he said, slowly, following one thought to the next even through the slowly pulsing waves of pain. “This morning. The morning after the official sedoretu ceremony, and Fezzan just _happens_ to dig up a massacre half the galaxy doesn’t appear to have noticed—when did this happen?”

Hilda shot him a look. “Is this really the time?” she asked, but Reinhard was sitting up and looking over at him, and there was something in his eyes and the way he tilted his head that wasn’t just despair anymore.

“The September before last.”

Yang considered this. “So…we were quite busy with our own little coup. I don’t think it had much coverage at the time. Don’t you think this is remarkably convenient timing?”

Reinhard’s lips twisted sideways. “Remarkably,” he said ruefully. “It’s very unlikely to be a coincidence.”

“Dear, are you—oh, sorry.” Frederica poked her head around the door. “I didn’t realize you were all in here, but, Wen-Li, I was looking for you. One of the chefs was trying to give you this tea, and—”

“I love you _so_ much,” Yang said fervently, getting to his feet and staggering across the room to take the steaming cup from her.

It was delicious. Even without alcohol—and he suspected Frederica would object if he tried to request any—the taste was heavenly. Yang sighed in pleasure, letting his eyes shut, taking just a moment of peace to let it warm his mouth, throat, and stomach.

The pain didn’t stop, but it did recede a little as he put cup firmly down on saucer and turned back to Reinhard, who was watching both of them with an expression on his face Yang couldn’t read. “So,” Yang said, heading back to the couch. “It makes sense that Fezzan would be starting a smear campaign. They’re not too happy about being part of the empire, and it’s to their advantage to discredit the sedoretu as much as possible, particularly you, Reinhard.”

“Yes,” Reinhard agreed. “It doesn’t stop the accusation from being true, however.”

Oberstein sighed harshly. “It’s not even remotely true,” he snapped. “Even if it hadn’t been transparently the correct strategy, _you_ were not responsible. I was.”

“Look, if you want to argue about what a terrible person you are, I’m happy to oblige you,” Yang said. “I’m sure we can find some alcohol, and I can tell you all about the atrocities _I’ve_ committed. Or we could focus on what to do now. It’s your call.”

Reinhard actually flushed a little, then turned a little into Hilda and took her hand. “Fine,” he said, sounding almost sulky. “How do we handle this then?”

“What’s going on?” Frederica asked; Yang explained to her in a few quick sentences.

“I could announce that I was the one who orchestrated the massacre,” Oberstein offered quietly.

Yang shook his head. “That’s easy enough for them to just dismiss as a soldier trying to take responsibility for his commander. And before you bring it up again, no, no one is going to listen to the argument that it saved ten times as many lives.”

“But it _did_,” Oberstein said stubbornly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Yang told him patiently. “This isn’t a _truth_ thing.” He took a long sip of his tea. “This is a public relations thing.” Beside him, Frederica was nodding.

“We could just ignore it,” she said. “If we don’t bite, it might die down.”

“What if it doesn’t, though?” Hilda put in. “I don’t think we can rely on that. Particularly if you’re correct about it’s being orchestrated.”

“They’ll have to be subtle, though.” Yang chewed on his lip and sipped on his tea. “So we don’t do anything _yet_. We just send someone quietly to Fezzan to see if we can find out who’s responsible. It could just be a general attempt to stir things up, and if that’s the case, Frederica’s right, and it might die down. If it’s part of an orchestrated campaign—” he thought for a long moment, wondering about history, wondering about _religion_, “—then they’ll have to show their hand eventually.”

Miserable nod from Reinhard. “Can’t we do _something_?” Hilda asked. “I mean…just sitting here being miserable doesn’t seem very productive.”

“Waiting is something,” Yang replied. “It’s just not a very exciting something.”

“It’s all right, Hilda,” Reinhard said. “He’s not wrong.” He sighed and nodded. “All right. We’ll wait.”

~

Julian wasn’t having a good day. He’d woken up feeling sick again, a strange mix of hunger and nausea. He was beginning to suspect there was something really off about the food the Terrans were giving them, but by the time he’d come to that conclusion, he’d been out of time anyway. Still, he was ill enough he’d almost forgotten that today was the day the Imperial army had planned to attack. At least he’d been on the ball enough to sneak downward to the part of the complex he’d seen the bishops going down to when the attack commenced. And he’d downloaded all the information on their computer system onto his disk, but that was about when things had started going _really_ wrong.

He’d been supposed to rendezvous with Louis back on the main floor, but first the fighting had been too thick, and then the Terrans had blown up the tunnel he’d needed to go down. There wasn’t any way for him to reach the rendezvous point now. He could have tried to join up with the Imperial army, but with the disk in hand, he should be getting as far away from the fighting as fast as he could.

Even being as careful as he could, he’d still taken a rather deep leg injury from a cultist’s knife. He’d bound it up, and he was pretty sure it hadn’t hit anything vital, but the leg was trembling, and it was slowing him down more than he really wanted to admit.

Wincing, he put a hand to the cool stone wall to help keep himself upright—and paused for an instant. There was a vibration traveling through the wall he was pretty sure he hadn’t felt before. Which was probably also bad. _Keep going_, he told himself. _You’re a soldier_. _You’re brilliant. You can do this_.

He turned the next corner and saw, to his relief, a pale wash of sunlight illuminating a round hole in the rock and its entrance. Almost there, then. Almost safe. Just a few more steps.

The rumbling was growing stronger. The passageway itself was beginning to shake. Julian looked up in alarm at the hollow sound of an explosion; moments later, everything went black.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hilda and Frederica get to know each other in an orchard, and Reinhard and Yang finally have that game of chess.

Golden afternoon sunlight streamed down onto rippling green leaves, casting restless, swirling, dappled shadows on the ground beneath. Frederica shielded her eyes as she looked out across the orchard abutting the nearest mansion that had become their oh-so-temporary residence.

She supposed it wasn’t surprising that that the sedoretu needed to travel—Reinhard and Hilda were constantly talking and working directly with the admirals and the Imperial bureaucracy as it slowly rebuilt itself. It was a little unfortunate that she and Yang had significantly less to do. Things for the past week had been simultaneously stressful and boring, particularly as they tried to keep an eye on what Fezzan was trying to do. She should probably be grateful for the respite, since presumably she and Yang would end up with a lot _more_ to handle as soon as the sedoretu was recalled to Heinessen.

Well. It wasn’t all bad. Yang was tired and worried, but he’d had a chance to poke his nose in several of the Imperial archives already, and Frederica felt her heart swell whenever she came across him in an odd corner, reading avidly, and actually smiling. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled this much. She’d have traded a lot more than the current set of inconveniences to see that many of his smiles.

“It’s nice out, isn’t it?” Frederica turned to smile at Hilda.

“Very,” she agreed. “Have you finally gotten a break from whatever tariff has been occupying the Imperial attention all day?”

Hilda wrinkled her nose. “Yes. Everyone left unsatisfied, but I think we probably made the right decision. Reinhard mumbled something about wanting to play chess to cool down. I think he meant since he couldn’t fight someone, he was going to go and try to match wits with Yang.”

Frederica laughed. “Good luck,” she said. “Wen-Li is terrible at chess. He’ll probably be mated in three.” They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, both of them leaning on the wooden rail and staring out over the sea of green beneath them.

Then Hilda touched her hand gently. “Walk with me?” she said, a little hesitantly. “I’d like to show you the orchard. In thanks for—for the sky you showed me.”

Frederica felt the tips of her ears getting a little warm. Although she knew the idea didn’t bother Wen-Li, and probably didn’t bother Reinhard, she and Hilda hadn’t kissed again since the first time. There had been too much going on, and they’d both been very awkward about it, and it just hadn’t seemed to come up—but there was no reason it couldn’t. And a solitary walk down through the quiet orchard with the wind murmuring in their ears and playing with their hair—well. It would probably come up.

She ducked her head. “All right,” she said. “I’d like that.”

Hilda gave her a shy smile, though Frederica could see she was hunching her shoulders up a little as they started down the stairs together.

“It’s so open,” Frederica marveled. “Being able to look out between the trees and see the sky—I’ve mostly lived in cities, when I was grounded, so this isn’t something I’ve seen much.”

“When I was very little, my mother used to take me out to my uncle’s farm,” Hilda said. “My father’s family is noble, but my mother’s family weren’t. Aren’t. Anyway, my mother would take me out to the orchard and we’d play at swordfighting together between the trees with long sticks.”

“Sounds like fun. Just you and your mother. Do you get back home often?”

“A fair bit. Not since the sedoretu, I suppose. But my mother’s dead.”

“Oh—I’m sorry.” Frederica bit her lip. Clumsy.

“It was a long time ago, and you had no way to know.” Hilda stared off into the distance. “I do miss her sometimes.”

The wistfulness in her gaze lasted for only a moment or two before she grinned at Frederica. “Do you know the best part about orchards? You can just get food right off the trees.” She stood on her tiptoes and plucked a large low-hanging fruit, holding it out temptingly to Frederica. “Here. Try it.”

It was smooth against the palm of Frederica’s hand, and when she bit into it, tart juice flowed over her tongue, then overflowed her lips. It was juicier than she’d expected, and she started digging in the pocket of her uniform trousers for a handkerchief as she chewed. “S’good,” she mumbled around the overwhelming taste of apple.

Hilda actually giggled. “Hold still.” She stepped closer and daubed carefully at Frederica’s chin and the corner of her mouth. She was so close. She was so warm. Frederica was already leaning toward her when Hilda took her hand and pulled her closer. The first kiss was a shy brush of lips; Hilda gave a little shuddering breath against Frederica’s lips. After that slight pause, Frederica found her hands on Hilda’s waist, found Hilda’s hands linking behind her neck, and the second kiss wasn’t shy at all.

~

After searching for a good fifteen minutes, Reinhard found Yang exactly where he should have expected to find him: the library. He was curled up in a leather armchair, one hand propping up his head as he carefully turned a page with the other. There was light filtering in from the window, but it didn’t seem to quite reach him—Reinhard’s night consort, who looked so much more at home curled up in that unassuming position than he did on the deck of a starship, and yet—and yet—

What was he doing? Reinhard clutched at the pendant around his neck again. He had promised Kircheis he would take the universe, and he would. But would that mean giving up the man in front of him? Sacrificing him on the altar of _one_ lo—man who had already died for him? One for the other, pawn for queen? Or…queen for queen…?

Reinhard shook his head. What was the _point_ in going over and over these stupid gloomy concerns, when he had no move he could make at this point? He had no choice_ but_ to wait for circumstances to change, no matter how much he hated it.

“Did something happen?” Yang asked, glancing up and then back down again. He’d dithered for too long.

“No, I was just wondering if you wanted a game of chess,” Reinhard blurted.

“If you’re looking for an actual challenge, I’ll warn you again, I’m terrible.” Yang gave him a brief, tired-looking smile before going back to his book.

“I’d like to judge that for myself, at least.”

“I suppose that’s fair. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He kept reading while Reinhard set the chess board out, and he barely glanced up when Reinhard asked, “Black or white?”

“Either’s fine,” Yang said, then promptly went back to his book. Reinhard sighed, took white, and proceeded to mate Yang in four moves. Yang barely looked up.

“Scholar’s mate? Really?”

Shrug. Turned page.

“I know you said you were bad at chess, but maybe if you _put the book down_—”

“It’s a very interesting book.” Yang’s eyes caught his over the pages, and they were twinkling, just a bit.

Reinhard sighed and reset the chess board. This time the game went on for a little longer before Yang, burying his nose in the book with a sharp exclamation, put his queen down directly in front of Reinhard’s rook. Mate followed shortly. Reinhard growled and reset the board again, this time taking black. Yang went back to his book. When he exposed his queen five moves in, Reinhard rolled his eyes and took it. Yang peeped up over the book, smiled, and moved the bishop Reinhard hadn’t even noticed because he’d been too annoyed. “Check,” he said. Reinhard stared at the board.

“Mate in one,” he breathed. “You absolute bastard.”

Yang chuckled. “I really am not very good at chess,” he said. “So if I want a chance, I have to resort to cheap tricks.” He put the book down. “All right. Once more?”

Reinhard found himself smiling back. “All right. White or black?”

“Black this time. I am your night, after all.”

“And you move just like one,” Reinhard retorted, smirking at the fact he’d finally managed to get a confused look. He lifted one of the knights and described an L shape. “As crookedly as possible.”

Yang raised his hands innocently. “I’m straightforward if it’s advantageous, but it usually isn’t.”

“It’s impressive,” dropped from Reinhard’s lips before he was aware of what he was going to say. He covered his confusion by turning the chess board around rather hurriedly and moving his first pawn. “There.”

Although he was a little better when he wasn’t deliberately playing badly, Yang hadn’t been exaggerating particularly. He was a distinctly mediocre chess player, and the game was over reasonably quickly.

“You could be so much better,” Reinhard said, staring down at the chessboard.

“Maybe.” Yang shrugged. “I just don’t find chess very interesting. I’d rather read a book.” He paused. “Well—I enjoy playing it with friends, but I can’t really be bothered putting in the effort to learn all the openings and endings and strategies.”

“Don’t you _want_ things?” Reinhard felt as if they’d had this conversation before, but he kept circling back to it like a moth drawn to a particularly intriguing light. It felt more urgent than ever, now. If he could understand Yang, if he could make _Yang_ understand—perhaps he could keep them both. Yang and Kircheis. He wasn’t certain if he could make sense of that thought, or the mess of feelings that accompanied it. He wanted to, but he didn’t know where to start.

“Of course I want things,” Yang replied. “I want books and tea and quiet afternoons in the sun.” He paused, his eyes unfocusing and staring off into the distance above Reinhard’s shoulder, and he sighed, a long, shuddering sigh, quite different from his normal rueful, half self-effacing ones. “I want democracy to exist, somewhere, in the galaxy. I just—don’t want to have to be the one to make sure of it.” He closed his mouth, eyes flickering back to Reinhard, then dropping back to the chessboard. There was a laden moment in the silence, and he drew in his breath as if he were about to say something, but then he let it back out.

Reinhard stretched his hand across the table and brushed his fingers across the back of Yang’s knuckles, and Yang startled and looked up at him, dark eyes wide and questioning. “Thank you for indulging me,” Reinhard told him.

The questioning noise he got was something along the lines of “hmuh?”

“For playing chess with me when you don’t like it, I mean.”

Slow blink, followed by a slow smile. “I said I don’t like studying it. I did say I liked playing with friends.”

Something twisted inside Reinhard’s chest, and he had to look away. “Ah—good,” he said finally. “But thank you all the same. I’ll let you get back to your book.” He stood up abruptly, and—

“Reinhard? What’s wrong?” Yang had an arm around his waist and a hand underneath his elbow. Reinhard blinked up at him, realizing the other man was taking all his weight—on one leg, no less, leaning to the side to favor his good one—and then realized that he was being held in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.

“Just a dizzy spell. I stood up too fast,” he said. Then, because it would be rude not to, “Thank you for catching me.”

He got a bemused smile in response to that. The way Yang’s dark eyes crinkled when he smiled—Reinhard didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand him. Didn’t understand anything that Yang said or did. He was an utterly infuriating man, completely different from—from Kircheis. And yet—Reinhard’s eyes dropped to Yang’s lips.

Yang was still holding him, looking a little stunned, as if he’d never expected to be in a position like this. He probably hadn’t. Something made Reinhard reach up, tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear, run a hand carefully along Yang’s cheek, and—

Someone knocked on the door. Reinhard stood up hurriedly, feeling his face grow hot. “We should—” he gestured, got a nod, and another confused smile. They both turned to the door.

~

Hilda had really never imagined the current situation, but she also wasn’t objecting. Frederica’s mouth tasted of sweet apples, and her hands had at some point slipped underneath Hilda’s blouse and were warm against the skin of her waist. When Frederica made a soft, breathy noise into the kiss, Hilda wondered if she dared take things further. God, she wanted to.

“Do you want—” she gasped. “Do you want to—”

Brilliant smile, those hazel eyes lighting up from inside. “I’d like that,” Frederica murmured. “I’d like that very much, night wife.”

The appellation sent a spike of desire down from just beneath Hilda’s sternum right down to her groin. “Oh good,” she gulped, and she steered Frederica backwards towards a convenient apple-tree that had grown at a tilting sideways angle and now formed a wide, slanting surface with two limbs forking outwards like a cradle. Frederica folded backwards onto it, tugging Hilda down on top of her, pressing them together lengthwise, front to front. Her breasts against Hilda’s were delightfully soft, and, oh _god_, Hilda wanted to be touching them without the intervening cloth.

There were lips on her throat; Frederica was kissing along it gently. Hilda whined as the lips paused to nibble on her collarbone, and ground her hips against Frederica’s, drawing out another breathy gasp and sending stars flashing before her own eyes. Slim, careful fingers began to loosen her tie and undo the buttons of her blouse, and for an instant she was stunned into immobility, before she was almost recklessly pulling at the jacket that Frederica was wearing. Getting it open revealed a plain white undershirt, and she groaned in frustration, because Frederica already had _her_ blouse open to the waist.

Something about Hilda’s expression must have been amusing, because Frederica laughed, very gently, and leaned up on her elbows. “Give me a little space, and I’ll get my top off,” she said.

Reluctantly, Hilda peeled herself back and watched as Frederica shucked off the jacket and, crossing her arms across her front, pulled the t-shirt over her head, revealing a plain white exercise bra, which she then pulled off as well. She had a splash of freckles on her breasts. They were beautiful. Hilda wanted to lick them.

“You can come back now,” Frederica said with a mischievous smile.

“Mhngh,” Hilda replied without thinking, then felt her face getting warm. In retaliation, she finished pulling off her own blouse, standing in front of Frederica in only her trousers and slightly lacier bra.

“Oooh,” said Frederica. “Oh, that looks lovely on you.” Hilda was already stepping back towards her, fumbling with the clasp at the back of the bra. “I’ll get it, come here,” Frederica told her, and Hilda stepped all the way back into his arms, letting herself be pulled into another deep, apple-scented kiss. Frederica’s fingers behind her deftly undid the clasp of her bra, and then slid it up so they were breast-to-breast. It was so _soft_. Hilda found she was moaning into the kiss, and her hands were on the round swell of Frederica’s thighs. Experimentally, she squeezed a little, and Frederica made a throaty noise and leaned back, hooking her ankles around Hilda’s.

The belts needed to be off, Hilda decided, through a haze of sensation. The cloth rubbing between her legs wasn’t exactly an unpleasant sensation, but something else there would be much pleasanter. For another long minute, she just bathed in the sensation of the deepening kiss, and the feel of Frederica at her front, hands sliding down her back, all around her, and then she started fumbling with her own belt.

It was easily discarded, and Frederica’s followed, which left both of them free to unbutton the trousers and get hands inside and—“Ohhh,” moaned Hilda. The position they were in was a little awkward for this, but she didn’t care. Those slim fingers were as skillful inside her as they had been at undoing her bra.

In contrast, she felt clumsy and unsure as she rubbed her hand tentatively across the heat of Frederica’s clit. She was slick, though, so presumably, Hilda was doing all right so far? She shifted them a little so they were pressed together, their hands trapped between them, so that they could rock their hips and—“F-Frederica,” she panted. “Ahhh—_ahhhh_—”

Soft whimper. Frederica was rocking back against her. “Yes,” Frederica murmured. “Ah—it feels good—”

Hilda was trembling. She pressed her face into the crook of Frederica’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of her sweat and the scent of grass and tree bark. “I’m—I’m—”

“_Mmmnn_…”

“_Ahhhhh_—” Her free hand tightened desperately on Frederica’s waist; one more twitch of the other woman’s fingers and her universe expanded, a single great heartbeat of warmth that rang through her from top to bottom like the ringing of a huge, sweet bell. She gasped, twitching, and she felt Frederica clench around her fingers in response, felt, with some vague distant interest, the way the muscles spasmed rhythmically a few times before they both collapsed, sweat-soaked, against one another.

Frederica gave a long, purring sigh, and Hilda kissed the junction of her shoulder and throat, then stood up, shakily, and kissed her on the mouth. Apples again. “I—I suppose we should go back up to the house and get cleaned up,” she managed, after a moment.

“Mmm.” Frederica nodded, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lips swollen, cheeks flushed. Hilda almost came again just at the sight of her. She swallowed hard and began to search for her clothes, pulling her trousers up and her blouse on, but not bothering with the bra. If they made it back looking rather disheveled, it hardly mattered. There wouldn’t be many people in the private parts of the house anyway, and, arguably, the obvious consummation of one of the Alliance-Empire sides of the sedoretu could only be a positive thing from a strategic perspective.

Frederica pulled on her t-shirt, likewise with no bra, then slung her jacket a little cheekily over one shoulder and put out a hand to Hilda, which she shyly took. They walked back up amid the lengthening shadows of the orchard in companionable silence. What a lovely day, Hilda thought. Maybe things really were starting to look up.

The lights of the house were on as they came up to it, and the back door was standing open. Hilda felt a little chill run down her spine. Someone had come in at what was supposed to be the end of the day? Why? She exchanged a concerned glance with Frederica, and they quickened their pace, trotting up the back steps to find that it wasn’t that someone had come in the back but that Reinhard had come out, leaning against the door, looking a little dazed. He turned quickly to Frederica. “I—I’m sorry,” he croaked out. “I didn’t know how to help.”

Frederica’s face went pale, and she pushed past him. “What—” Hilda started, half-feeling as if she should stay with Reinhard, but too concerned for Frederica not to trail after her into the hallway.

Yang was in the hall, in one of the stiff hall chairs that were mostly there for decoration, his cane discarded at an angle in front of him. He was splayed back in it, looking like nothing so much as a discarded rag doll, a half-empty bottle of golden liquid on the floor within an inch of his limp fingers.

He looked up slowly as the two of them entered, flinching a little when he saw Frederica. She rushed to his side. “Wen-Li, what’s—”

Eyes glazed, he barely moved. “Julian’s been killed in action,” he said, his voice slow and a little slurred. “I keep trying to forget that I know it and then remembering.”


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yang grieves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for dissociation, despair, and probably unhealthy coping mechanisms.

When Yang’s father had died, he’d spent the next night just crying. After that, there had been so much to handle—his father’s debts, his father’s forged art collection, trying to figure out his own next step now that his life had been abruptly upended—that he simply hadn’t had much time for tears. Now he had the time, but he had no tears.

Instead, everything was a little distant, the world viewed through a window of slightly clouded glass. Voices seemed to arrive a moment after he watched their owners speak. There was a slight delay in the reactions of his own body, like the response delay of the old simulators they used to train on in the academy. He wasn’t sure if he liked it. He wasn’t sure how he felt at all. Mostly just tired and a little cold, all the time.

He and Frederica would be arriving back on Heinessen in a few hours, ready for Julian’s funeral the next day. Yang wondered if he had an appropriate suit. He didn’t have many clothes, and there hadn’t been much need for solid black clothing. But there wouldn’t be any time to shop. Well—his uniform should be fine. Julian wouldn’t care. No, Julian wouldn’t care.

“Wen-Li?” Frederica. Yang sent an order to his face to smile, which he thought it did. “Do you need anything?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, a few half-seconds after deciding to say it. He didn’t want tea, and Julian wouldn’t want him drinking, so the tea-with-brandy-minus-tea idea was out. Frederica made a soft noise and put her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t really feel it. “Are we almost there?” he asked, after a moment.

“We’ll be landing in about an hour. It’s not far to the hotel.” Another hotel. Yang wanted, suddenly, to be back on Odin, tucked away in that spectacular old library, needling Reinhard over a chessboard. He’d been enjoying himself. Not quite retirement on a pension, but it had been a breath of fresh air, and now—

Now he didn’t know if he’d ever want to open a book again. He shut his eyes and breathed, pressing his hands against them until he saw swirling brown kaleidoscopic patterns, until that was the only thing in his sight and he didn’t have to see the vision of Julian’s corpse, crushed beneath a mountain of rock. _The Terraists had more resources than we expected. They detonated the mountain._

An entire mountain. Yang’s heart clenched. He thought he’d made a noise.

Something soft brushed at his elbow. “Mraow?” Admiral was on the desk, rubbing against his arm.

“I’m sorry,” Yang said to him, hopelessly, gathering the cat into his arms. “I’m so sorry. He’s not coming home.”

He was never coming home.

~

There were few things that Alex Cazerne hated more than funerals, but Julian’s was the worst he’d ever attended. There was always something about the sadness of interring an empty casket—not even a body to say goodbye to—and there was the boy’s youth, and Alex’s own feeling of having lost a friend, someone like a son to him—and then there was Julian’s father.

Yang was very quiet during the ceremony, leaning heavily on the cane he’d needed since the Terraist attack on the sedoretu during early negotiations. Frederica Greenhill had an arm firmly around his waist, supporting him as well. How old was he? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? He looked at least ten years older, if not more, the curve of his hunched shoulders ancient in their dumb despair.

Alex had half-expected he’d show up drunk—Yang wasn’t exactly healthy about his liquor habits—but despite the vague expression and the tendency to sway on his feet there was no smell of alcohol around him, and the few words that he said were calm and precise, if oddly monotonous, with no trace of slurring in his speech. He didn’t seem drunk. He just seemed—distant.

It was a bright, sunny day out, but there was a line of forbidding dark clouds on the horizon. The air was still, motionless, as if the wind were paying its respects as well, and the mourners were sweating in their full black outfits. Alex soon found he wasn’t paying much attention to the service and was instead watching Yang’s face intently, searching for any sign of his old vibrancy, or even his old omnipresent exhaustion, but there was nothing. They might not have a body to lay in the ground, but there was definitely a corpse at the funeral.

Afterwards, he waited, hovering awkwardly at the outside of the crowd of men and women all trying to comfort Yang. Hortense looked from him to the lonely figure in its dark green uniform, clutching hat in hands, and patted his shoulder and told him quietly she would take the children to the car to wait. “If you want to say something to him when he’s a little less surrounded.” 

“Thank you, dear.” He kissed her cheek absently, then continued to wait. Slowly, the little knot of people began to trickle away, finally leaving just Yang and Frederica standing in front of Julian’s grave.

For an instant, Alex wondered if he’d be intruding if he approached, but in the end, he decided it was more important to let Yang see that he was here, and he was fairly sure Frederica had noticed him already. It would probably be more awkward to leave now, so he walked the few feet from the graveyard entrance over to them. Frederica looked up as he approached; Yang just blinked a few times. At first, Alex thought he hadn’t even realized his friend was there, but then he spoke, his voice somber.

“A father shouldn’t outlive his son.” Yang’s face was pale, his eyes almost glassy as he stared down at the freshly-turned earth. “I don’t think I’d ever realized how truly terrible this world is before now.” A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I thought I had. It’s really extraordinary how wrong I can be sometimes.”

“Yang…” Alex felt helpless. What was there to say to that? He thought of the two little girls Hortense had taken back to the car. Losing Julian hurt badly enough; what would losing one of those two do to him? “I’m so sorry,” he said finally, helplessly.

Yang’s head jerked up and down, a soft little repetitive nod. “So am I,” he said wearily. “So am I.”

~

Karin von Kreutzer had not been crying. It didn’t matter to her whether someone she’d barely spoken to was alive, just like it didn’t matter that her only living relative was someone she couldn’t depend on. She might have a cold, but she had definitely not been crying at all.

Someone knocked on the door of her quarters, and she looked up with a sigh. Whoever it was was probably looking for one of her room-mates, not her, so was there really any point in answering? She waited, letting her head droop back onto her hand, and the knock came again. The person was insistent. Fine.

She got up and stomped over to the door, which was maybe a little childish, but she didn’t care. She flung the door open and found herself staring at a tall man with sideburns whom she’d only ever seen from a distance and in an old, faded photograph her mother had left her after her death. Karin stared, poleaxed, completely uncertain what to do, as Walter von Schönkopf ran his hand awkwardly through his hair and said, “Can I talk to you?”

Her first impulse was to shut the door in his face, but she stopped herself. Guardedly, she asked, “Why?”

“Because—” Schönkopf halted and sighed heavily. “I just saw the man I admire most in the world lose his son. I don’t want to lose my daughter without knowing her. And I’m sorry.”

He sounded—sincere. He sounded—unsure. Karin wasn’t certain she wanted to hear whatever excuses he had for her, but she wasn’t sure she _didn’t_, either, so she stood aside, awkwardly, and waved for him to come in.

~

The Empire was beginning to settle more firmly into Kaiser Reinhard’s grasp, with the help of his new night Kaiserin and little group of trusted confidants. Paul von Oberstein, although still universally disliked, was acknowledged to be doing the work of at least three people somehow. Wolfgang Mittermeyer went home every evening with a smile on his face. Oskar von Reuenthal, to the scandal of the court, was rumored to have found a mistress. Slowly, the influence of the Goldenbaum Dynasty ebbed. 

The Alliance did not take as easily to peace as the Empire did, perhaps because their situation was less secure. Articles on Westerland circulated more quickly; one or two protests were organized against the sedoretu, though most people agreed that it was better not to anger the Empire now. But after hundreds of years of war, the Alliance was slow to accept peace, and slower to understand it.

On the other hand, the people of the Alliance remained largely unperturbed by the separation of the sedoretu, while the Empire was uneasy. Several Imperial tabloids ran a set of unsubstantiated rumors that made Oberstein livid when he found out about them. In the Alliance, only the people closest to Yang were concerned, as days went by and he didn’t leave his house. He politely rebuffed several attempts to call him in for negotiations, citing military bereavement regulations, and the fact that his position was unprecedented in the Alliance charter made it easier.

Reinhard found himself corresponding with Frederica Greenhill when he had the time, which was admittedly not as often as he would like. The day after Julian’s funeral he had been bedridden with a severe fever, and he was working hard to catch up on lost time. Still, the notes exchanged with his morning sister were—oddly comforting, although he was still plagued with nightmares about Kircheis’s death and his conflicted feelings over the matter of the sedoretu in general.

Although Westerland was still something of a byword, it was receding. Despite the rocky start, despite the rumors about the stability of the sedoretu, the treaty between the Empire and the Alliance was beginning to become their normal. In light of the fact that, incredibly, the situation was stabilizing, several people were beginning to become displeased, and someone reminded Job Trunicht he had a job to do.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which little is said but much is understood.

Emil concentrated on holding the heavy tray and waiting patiently by the door. He was also trying not to listen to the conversation going on in the Kaiser’s bedroom, which made things rather more awkward. He had only been going to bring Reinhard his dinner in bed, as he’d been feeling a little poorly, and Hilda had ordered him to lie down in no uncertain terms. But Admiral Oberstein had breezed past him before he could enter and begged for “a moment of the Kaiser’s time.” Thus far, Emil thought mulishly, it had been significantly more than a moment. His arms were starting to ache.

The low murmur of voices was growing louder. Emil shifted from foot to foot, and then nearly dropped the tray in surprise when Reinhard’s voice went from almost a whisper to a shout, “No! Absolutely _not_! How could you even _think_—”

Something low and faintly soothing from Oberstein.

“Do not mention this again. It is not an option. It will never be an option. And if you try to circumvent this order somehow—”

“Your Majesty!” Oberstein’s voice was louder now, as well. “You have made your wishes clear. I will abide by them.” Something else, too soft for Emil to hear. And, he reminded himself, he wasn’t _supposed _to hear it, because he wasn’t _supposed_ to be listening. Because he wasn’t listening. Reinhard spoke again, voice quieter, but still raw with fury.

“No,” Oberstein said clearly. “I do _not_ need a reminder of Westerland, Your Majesty.” The next moment he was sweeping out the door quickly enough that the nervous nod Emil gave him didn’t actually happen until he was already several feet down the passage. He straightened up, reminding himself of his duties, and headed in with the Kaiser’s dinner.

~

When Frederica opened the door to find Trunicht flanked by several bodyguards standing on it, she was very tempted to shut it again in his face. But there really wasn’t anything to be gained by that, so, with a very, very deep breath, she plastered a pleasant smile on her face and said, “How can I help you?”

Trunicht smiled back, a smile that reached his eyes and every part of his face and still succeeded in feeling utterly fake. “I was hoping to arrange a meeting with the morning and night consorts! It’s been quite some time, and I have several important questions about the treaty.”

There was absolutely no way Wen-Li was up to any kind of meeting, Frederica thought. She thought he might have gotten out of bed today, which was definitely progress, but there was a definite gap between “ability to stand up” and “ability to handle the smuggest bastard on this side of the galaxy.”

“Consort Yang is not feeling well today,” Frederica said, at which point Wen-Li himself chose that moment to walk into the hallway.

“I thought I heard voices—oh.” He had gotten up—dressed even, although he was wearing a pair of ripped stained jeans and a plain white t-shirt. He hadn’t shaved, and although Wen-Li never really grew much of a beard, there was an obvious dark fuzz showing on his chin.

Trunicht’s expression didn’t falter in the slightest. “Ah, Night Consort Yang,” he said brightly. “I was just saying I have several important questions for you and Morning Consort Greenhill.”

Wen-Li’s vague gaze flickered from him to Frederica, and then he sighed, shrugged, and stepped back. “Please come in,” he said, probably trying for polite, but to Frederica, he just sounded empty. He didn’t even try to apologize for his grubby appearance—not that he ought to, but it was un-Wen-Li-like enough to be discouraging.

“Thank you!” Trunicht said. “I’m sure this won’t take too much of your time.”

Frederica snorted, but he ignored her, and the entire procession followed Wen-Li, who took them into the living room, gesturing to the sofa, glancing at Frederica, and then seating himself in the middle of the coffee table. Admiral promptly jumped up beside him, and Wen-Li gave a small smile as he picked the cat up and put it in his lap.

Trunicht gave Wen-Li what Frederica assumed was supposed to be an affable look, and said, “Whatever’s most comfortable for you, of course,” a statement which Wen-Li ignored in favor of scratching Admiral’s chin. Despite how worried she was, Frederica hid a smile. She had a feeling this meeting wasn’t going to go smoothly for Trunicht. She considered for a moment, then sat on the floor beside the coffee table, where she could put a hand on Wen-Li’s thigh.

“Well,” Trunicht said. “Isn’t this nice. I wonder if I could trouble you for something to drink?”

“No,” Wen-Li said.

“Er?” said Trunicht.

“We don’t have anything.” He paused, sounding vaguely thoughtful. “Sorry.”

Frederica actually had to stifle laughter at the look on Trunicht’s face. “So what was it that you wanted to ask us?” she put in, hoping between them they’d manage to shorten this visit into something halfway tolerable.

“Oh—ah—yes, well.” Trunicht fiddled with his tie. “I wanted to ask about the, um…” He still seemed off-put, more than Frederica would have expected from Yang’s rudeness. “The health of your spouses?” he finally finished.

Trunicht still seemed to be expecting Wen-Li to speak, but Wen-Li just stared vacantly down at Admiral, so Frederica answered. “I believe they’re fine,” she said. “I know Reinhard has been under the weather, probably from overwork, but I’m sure he’s being well looked after.”

“Hrm.” Trunicht nodded seriously. “So their health is…good?”

What on earth was he driving at? “Yes?” Frederica hazarded.

“And then, presumably likely to remain so?”

“I—probably?” Sharp concern nibbled at her insides. “Why? Is there news we haven’t heard? Do we need to warn them about something?”

“Oh! No, rather the _opposite_,” Trunicht said, his smile widening. “No, you shouldn’t be warning anyone about anything, aha.” He looked pointedly at Wen-Li. “But you’ve removed obstacles to the Alliance before, haven’t you, Miracle Yang?”

Wen-Li blinked, long and slow. Frederica felt her hand tightening on his thigh. She really didn’t like where this was going. “Obstacles?” he echoed. “What more do you want? The Alliance is safe.”

“The Alliance is…” Trunicht seemed to be searching for words. “_Temporarily_ safe. There are plenty of people who are concerned about when the golden-haired brat’s greed will swallow us.”

For the first time, Wen-Li’s eyes seemed to clear a little. “That was the purpose of the sedoretu,” he said slowly. “The reason you _ordered_ me to carry out a wedding at gunpoint.” Frederica found herself cataloguing possible escape routes to their own living room.

“And it’s done its job as a temporary measure.” Trunicht seemed to be getting more comfortable as he managed to draw a reaction out of Wen-Li. “But there are people who are concerned with more permanent ones.”

“More permanent than a marriage?” Wen-Li’s hand sought Frederica’s. “Mr. Trunicht, I think you’d better leave.”

“Yang, Yang, Yang.” Trunicht’s smile was cracking more widely. “Think about it. Isn’t the security of democracy worth getting your hands a little dirty?”

Wen-Li got up suddenly, dislodging Admiral, who dropped to the table with an affronted yowl. “Ah—I’m sorry,” he said to the cat. Then he looked back at Trunicht. “I lost my ward less than a month ago,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “I think. You had better. Leave.”

“Well.” Trunicht raised his hands and brought them down onto his knees in a grandiose slap, an avuncular gesture that didn’t sit well on him. “I suppose we’ve chatted enough for one day. I hope you aren’t bothered by me taking up your time.”

After they’d escorted him and his bodyguards safely out the door, Frederica looked at Yang. “We have to warn them,” she said immediately.

Running a hand through his hair, Wen-Li nodded wearily. Swaying a little on his feet, he leaned back against the wall. “A transmission might be intercepted. We’ll have to find someone willing to carry a personal message.” He sighed. “I thought…I thought I’d have time to grieve.”

“Wen-Li—”

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said, one hand fiddling with a stray lock of hair. “Trunicht’s position is only made more secure by the existence of the sedoretu. Left to his own devices, he absolutely would not want to endanger that. So there’s something here that we’re missing. _Again_.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Bit by bit, if we have to. For now, we’ll warn Hilda and Reinhard.”

“For now.” He nodded, then slumped down the wall, his shoulders curling inward. “I should…I should think. I need to think. In the meantime—Boris Konev. Can you contact him?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Frederica assured him. “He’s your childhood friend, isn’t he?”

“And a Fezzani merchant. He should be able to reach Odin with no trouble. He’s smart enough he’ll find a way to get the message to them.”

“Don’t worry.” She knelt in front of him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “We’re going to weather this.”

For the first time in three weeks, she thought he was actually looking at her. He reached out, took her hand, and squeezed it hard, then laid his cheek against her shoulder and nodded, even if the nod was slow. One step at a time, Frederica reminded herself. One step at a time.

~

From her position perched awkwardly in an uncomfortably stiff, large chair, Hilda tried to keep a surreptitious eye on her morning husband. Although he’d recovered from his fever, Reinhard still seemed pale, eyes shadowed by wide dark circles like bruises beneath them. Right now, he was leaning his chin sideways on his hand as the two of them spent their final hour hearing a set of requests from their subjects. It wasn’t exactly something that was required, and Hilda had tried to convinced Reinhard to at least skip a day, but he was stubbornly insistent that his time belonged to his people.

At least there was only one person left. Once this was done, maybe she could convince Reinhard to relax. Play some chess, or read a book—but he’d seemed to find anything other than working or sleeping nearly impossible since the disastrous report of Julian Mintz’s death and the subsequent departure of the other half of the sedoretu. They would have to return soon; the current situation was starting to strain the treaty. Ominous rumblings from some of the remaining nobility didn’t bode well for Reinhard’s ability to retain the power he’d snatched.

Hilda probably should have expected the trouble brewing—the sedoretu was, after all, a tradition extending back before the foundation of the Empire, and it was perhaps the closest thing to a sacred rite that still existed. They had already been on thin ice over the instantiation of it, although things had seemed to quiet down in the aftermath of the formal ceremony. Hilda thought that some of those who truly believed in the sacredness of it had perhaps been a little charmed by Wen-Li and Frederica.

Their final supplicant was a tall man, blond, with brown eyes. “Boris Konev,” he said, walking forward, and then glancing around quickly. “I have a message.”

“A message?” Reinhard raised a thin eyebrow.

“From your favorite chess partner,” Konev replied. “White queen to take black. Black king to take white. Job’s gambit.” He spoke quickly, voice slurred so that it was unlikely anyone else would hear the words, which sounded like complete gibberish to Hilda, at least until she looked over and saw the angry flush rising on Reinhard’s cheeks.

“_What,_” he hissed in a low voice, one white-knuckled hand rising to clench tightly about the locket, and then, somehow, it was obvious.

Konev barely reacted, just giving a light nod. “I was sent—”

“I know why you were sent. Thank you.” Reinhard glanced at Hilda. “You’ll be rewarded,” he told Konev.

“Well, I won’t say no,” Konev smiled. “But all I really care about is that—” a little frown dented his forehead. “—I want my closest friend to be all right.”

Reinhard’s blue eyes were like chips of ice, his face pale and stony, but he nodded. “So do I.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yang reaches a decision and so does Trunicht.

The room was black, except for one beam of yellow light that seemed to have no origin. In its center was Julian, wearing an old shirt and jeans. He looked up as Yang called his name, smiling, giving him a nervous little wave. For some reason, Yang felt a terrible painful longing welling up in his chest, and he began to run forward, calling Julian’s name, but Julian didn’t seem to hear him.

As he reached the edge of the light, he saw the black floor beneath Julian’s feet give way into black water. Julian’s mouth opened, but there was no sound as he screamed, no sound as he plummeted downward. Yang reached for him, trying to catch at his hand, but he was too late. For an instant, he saw his ward’s white, frightened face beneath him, and then he was gone, and Yang was kneeling on the bank of the dark river alone.

He ran a shaking hand through the cold water, and stared at his trembling, rippling reflection. Was that the reflection of the light above the water, or was it that the light was shining from beneath the water? Was that where the light originated? He wanted to find out. He wanted to follow Julian. He wanted—

The light was gone, and Yang’s eyes were open. He lay in bed, heart racing, staring at the ceiling above him. With a groan, he sat up, then gasped as something heavy hit the floor with a thud. It took a moment for the ripples of adrenaline to subside. Once it had, he shuffled across the bed and reached down to pick up Clausewitz’s _On War_, which he’d been reading late into the night. Somehow, though, the words on the page hadn’t been as comforting as they usually were. Still. It was a step up from lying and staring at the ceiling, he supposed.

Getting stiffly out of bed, he rescued his cane from the corner where it was leaning, and limped out the door of the bedroom, with one last longing glance back at his bed. He’d been trying to get up a little more, so Frederica didn’t have to worry about him as much. She really didn’t deserve to have to deal with this, he thought guiltily, running a hand through his hair. He should try to shave and eat something without her coaxing him to.

At the door of the bathroom, he paused, because he could hear voices from the living room. It wasn’t as if they often had visitors, so, with something faintly like curiosity pressing him onwards, he hobbled over in that direction instead, and opened the door.

Alex Cazerne and Frederica were sitting on the couch with the television on. Yang hadn’t even considered that as a possibility, since they hadn’t been using it for much other than movies over the past few weeks. He halted in the doorway, glimpsing the play of sunlight on gold. It was Reinhard, looking very regal, his hair several inches longer, every inch the Imperial Kaiser. His face was thinner than Yang remembered, cheeks a little sunken, but his blue eyes were as alive as ever. “—received intelligence that certain higher-up elements in the Free Planets Alliance have threatened the lives of myself, Hildegarde von Mariendorf, Yang Wen-Li, and Frederica Greenhill. This is not an invasion, it is an investigation. And I would expect no less from Admiral Yang if he became aware of such possible threats from the Empire.”

“What’s happened?” Yang asked, a heavy weight sinking into his chest.

Frederica turned quickly at the sound of his voice. “Wen-Li, I thought you were sleeping,” she said.

“I was.”

Alex looked up. “Things just took a turn for the—interesting,” he said, slowly. “Half the Imperial fleet is heading for Heinessen.”

Frederica was frowning a little, still staring at the screen, which had panned further out to reveal Hilda standing beside Reinhard, looking drawn and serious and concerned. “That was a surprisingly…non-aggressive speech. I’d have expected something a little more direct from Reinhard.”

Yang stared at the scene for a long moment. “Look who’s standing behind him,” he said softly, indicating the brown-haired shadow hovering near Reinhard’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Oberstein wrote it.”

“Speech or no speech, we’re still in trouble,” Alex pointed out shortly. “Whatever he _says_, the fact is what he’s doing is directing a massive Imperial fleet towards the Alliance. I haven’t dared change the channel to find out what Trunicht is saying yet.”

“I need a drink,” Yang said.

“I’ll get you some brandy,” Frederica said soberly, far too willingly, but he shook his head at her.

“I’m not sure I should have any,” he told her slowly.

“You shouldn’t,” Alex agreed. “Yang, you have to stop him.”

Yang gave him a long, slow blink. “Well, I’ve heard that before.”

“The treaty may be on its last legs, but we’ve had a little time to regroup,” Alex said, in a voice that Yang suspected was trying not to sound urgent. “I know this isn’t the best situation—all right, this is a pretty bad situation—but you’ve accomplished harder.”

Alex was probably right. On the one hand, Yang wasn’t part of the military anymore. On the other, if the sedoretu were truly broken, that might not be wholly true. But at the same time, Reinhard was almost certainly acting due to Yang’s warning—he hadn’t expected such an immediate, forceful response. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps he should have thought about the impact of warning Reinhard in the fashion he had, but the only thing in his mind _had_ been warning him. Yang rubbed a hand through his hair. “I need to think,” he said. “I’m going to take a shower.”

He turned the shower onto its coldest setting and stood beneath it, hands pressed against the tile wall, letting the icy water trickle down his head and between his shoulder blades. When was the last time he’d showered? He felt sticky and disgusting, but the cold water did clear his head a little.

If Reinhard weren’t stopped, well, the Imperial military could certainly destroy the Alliance military. They might be able to put up more of a fight than they could have a month or so ago, but they certainly weren’t at the point where they’d be able to repel a full assault. Reinhard would become the Kaiser of all known space. Democracy would be dead.

Did Yang care? Just a few weeks ago, his answer would have been an unequivocal _yes_. He’d been unwavering in his conviction that the _option_ of democracy needed to be preserved, no matter what talented rulers Reinhard and Hilda might be. But now…he wasn’t sure he felt anything as bright-burning as conviction. Now he didn’t seem to care about much of anything. He wanted to shut himself into a library, lose himself in other worlds and not think of the nightmares, not think of the people he’d lost and the people he still owed something to. He wanted to let himself fall through the dark water and touch that calm, still light on the other side. Perhaps he should have died back then. Julian wouldn’t have had such a long time to mourn him.

He turned his face up to the spray of the shower. There were other Julians, other young people who deserved to have a choice. So Yang didn’t care anymore—he was certain they did. What about the children, too young to understand what was happening? The children not born yet?

But he was just one person. It was silly to think that democracy’s fate lay in the hands of one man. Not to mention a little backwards. If democracy was supposed to stay around, didn’t it, by its very nature, need to have _people_ defending it? Trunicht certainly didn’t care. Maybe no one in the government did. Maybe it was time for the people to see what happened if you took that away. Maybe he was being arrogant, to think this was all up to him. And he was so, so, so tired.

Mechanically, he began to soap himself down from head to toe, not bothering with shampoo. It felt surprisingly good, although his teeth were chattering, and the cold water made his leg ache. Why should this be up to him _again_? Why should everyone keep turning to him for help? Hadn’t he given them everything? It wasn’t as if he’d ever asked so much from life, unless wanting to be able to curl up with a good book in the evening was greedy.

Jessica had died for her beliefs. Yang’s shoulders slumped as he thought of her slim, proud figure, standing outside in the rain, as she tried to help him, as she tried to preserve a little of his world that wasn’t just fighting. She wouldn’t blame him if he was too tired to keep moving. But she’d never stopped, not even when she lost the most important person in her world, had she?

Alex’s voice echoed in his head. _Yang’s useless from the neck down_. Sometimes he really wished he were entirely useless, because then maybe he’d get to rest. He grabbed a sponge and began to scrub the soap off, hard enough to make his skin prickle and tingle a little painfully. Fine. _Once more, Jessica. Once more, Julian._ But there was little point in trying to organize a military resistance to Reinhard. Even if they managed to repel him in the short term, it wouldn’t be tenable in the long term. Besides, it was what he would be expecting. What was needed now was another iteration of the Légal trap, but preferably one that didn’t end in checkmate for either side.

Yang turned his face up into the stinging cold of the water and drank some of it down. He was probably clean enough now; he’d just have to shave and dress. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

It felt hard. The razor was heavy and unwieldy in his hand, and each stripe of it across his chin was a little painful. He shouldn’t have let the fuzz get so long; that probably wasn’t helping. Still, the repetitive motion wasn’t hard to slip into, and he counted it a success that he managed to get through the process without cutting himself. He wiped his chin off with the towel, and then reminded himself that he still needed to put on clothing.

Opening his closet and looking at his uniform made a knot of pain rise in his throat; breathing was suddenly difficult. All he could think of was the last time he’d seen Julian. It took longer than it should have to unlock his trembling muscles, to force himself to pluck the shirt and trousers down from the closet. It wasn’t so hard to pull them on, because he just let muscle memory take over, and in a few moments, he was seating the hat on his head. One more deep breath, and he pushed open the door and headed back into the living room.

There were more people in the living room. Yang blinked in confusion. Did the couch really seat that many people? Dusty Attenborough gave him an energetic wave as he entered. Olivier Poplin, who was practically sitting in Dusty’s lap, gave Yang a cheeky grin. Beside him, Walter von Schönkopf reclined, head tipped back and eyes shut as if he were sleeping, but his hands were carefully twirling an axe, over and over again, a ceaseless rotational motion. Patrichev and Murai were squeezed thigh to thigh beside him, and a young woman with flaming red hair Yang wasn’t sure he recognized was perched on the arm of the couch.

Frederica and Alex looked up as well from where they were standing a few feet away from the couch, apparently conferring. “Ah—” Yang said, startled. “What—what’s all this?”

Poplin rocketed out of his seat, performing an incredibly exaggerated salute. “The Yang Fleet, reporting for duty, sir!” The girl on the end of the couch got up as well, saluting seriously. Schönkopf opened his eyes and grinned lazily. Dusty, Murai, and Patrichev all saluted as well, a little more gently, and Frederica smirked slightly. “We thought you might be going to try and do something by yourself,” she said.

Pain pricked at the back of Yang’s eyes, and he had to swipe a hand across them. “Well—”

“Unacceptable, sir, you’re useless below the neck,” Alex said, with a broad smile, and Yang couldn’t stop the surprised chuckle that dropped out of his mouth. Dusty got up, maneuvered around Poplin, and came over to clap Yang on the shoulder.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “We were trying to give you some space, but maybe we should have been bothering you a little more.”

Yang waved a hand in negation, but there was something tight and warm rising in his chest as he nodded to Dusty and then saluted the rest of the Yang Fleet right back. “Thank you,” he managed thickly, through a throat that was surely more constricted than it had any right to be. He took another moment to breathe, and then turned to the young red-haired woman, who was the only one still standing at attention. “At ease, please,” he told her. “I’m afraid I don’t know you?”

“Katerose von Kreutzer, sir!” She was so young; she couldn’t be more than Julian’s age.

An embarrassed cough from the couch turned out to be Schönkopf. “I brought her,” he said. “She’s, uh, my daughter.”

Yang tipped his head, looking from one to the other. Now that it was pointed out, he could see the family resemblance, but—“I didn’t know you had a daughter?” he said, cautiously.

“Yeah, uh…” Schönkopf suddenly became very interested in the axe.

“He didn’t either,” von Kreutzer volunteered, in a tone of voice that only sounded a little bitter. “My mother raised me, but she died in the Battle of Vermilion.”

_So_ young. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Yang told her softly. “But you’re welcome here, of course.”

She ducked her head a little when he smiled at her, and he took another long, deep breath, and made his way to the center of the couch, to where he could see the television. “So. What is Trunicht saying?” he asked slowly.

“Let’s find out,” Schönkopf said, reaching for the remote.

“We were waiting for you, dear,” Frederica explained, and the next moment she was at his side, taking his hand. He had to blink rapidly, because his eyes were prickling again.

The television flickered on, and Schönkopf flipped to the main Heinessen news channel. Sure enough, Trunicht was standing at a podium, with his usual wide smile plastered across his face. His teeth were white and gleaming as a shark’s, although there was something more rabbit-like than shark-like in his eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great regret that I announce that the Imperial fleet has once more set its sights on Heinessen, a consequence of some deeply disturbing rumors of threats against the sedoretu allegedly circulated by higher-up government officials of the Alliance—”

Frederica’s hand tightened in Yang’s, and he heard her expel a small, angry huff of air.

“—of course, we will be investigating these rumors ourselves, but I find it unpleasant and concerning that Kaiser Reinhard refuses to trust the body of government he has supposedly entered into a treaty with. I do not desire war, and I will do my utmost to prevent it, but should it occur once more, I am sure all the citizens of Heinessen will understand where their duty lies.”

Yang snorted. “I forgot how much I hate his speeches,” he muttered.

“And in the meantime, due to these most concerning rumors, I will, of course, be ensuring that Night Consort Yang Wen-Li and Morning Consort Frederica Greenhill are placed in protective custody.”

A frisson of concern ran down the back of Yang’s neck. “Do you think we’d leave it alive?” he asked Frederica conversationally. “I’d give us maybe fifty-fifty odds.”

“That high?” Schönkopf drawled. “You’re a very trusting man, Yang Wen-Li.”

“How long do you think we’ve got?” Dusty asked. “I mean, if he’s announcing this on TV now, I bet he’s already sent someone our way.”

Yang tapped his bottom lip with his thumb. “Not long, then,” he said. “Or we’d be better off acting as if we don’t have long, anyway.” He went through a mental list of their options. “We’ll have to get off-planet, which means we’ll need a ship, and that means we need someone to give us a ship.” God, he was rusty, and his leg was hurting. “Who are our potential allies?” he said, turning to Frederica.

She thought for a moment. “Admirals Merkatz and Bucock are retired. Many of the Alliance military respect you, but whether they’d actually help us hide from Trunicht is dicier. It could be a career-ending proposition. I expect there are also certain members of the press who would be eager to help, but they would be unlikely to have access to a ship.” She paused. “Commander von Schneider,” she said, and Yang exhaled deeply. He should have thought of Merkatz’s aide, who now had his own command. But wasn’t the point of having a fleet that he didn’t have to? Again that tight, warm tug at his chest.

“Yes,” he said. “Good. We’ll go to him. It’s a shame that we can’t warn him ahead of time, but it’s probably better that we keep radio silence as much as possible.”

“Admiral Yang!” Patrichev, who had at some point risen from the couch and was peering out the window. “We’ve got company.”

“So much for planning,” Yang muttered.

“Don’t worry, that’s my cue,” Schönkopf grinned. “They’re going to have to get through the Rosen Ritter first.” He stood up and stretched. “We’ll meet you at von Schneider’s location if we can. If we’re not there an hour after you, leave us.”

Von Kreutzer rose. “I’m coming with you, Father,” she declared.

“No, you aren’t,” Schönkopf told her. “That’s an order.”

“But—”

“Come on.” Poplin put a hand on her arm. “Yang’s going to need the best pilots with him. Do you even have training in hand-to-hand?”

“A little,” she protested, but she nodded. “Fine. But—but—” She breathed out angrily and then looked away.

“I’ll be fine, kid.” Schönkopf clapped her on the shoulder. “Now get out of here, all of you.”

They took two cars: Yang’s and Frederica’s, with Yang, Frederica, Poplin, and von Kreutzer; and Alex’s, with Alex, Murai, Patrichev, and Dusty. “I’m driving,” Frederica announced. “Wen-Li, get in the back.” He didn’t bother to protest, just letting Poplin bundle him in and leaning against the cold window for stability. “Everyone, please buckle your seatbelts,” Frederica said, in a voice that brooked no arguments. Yang meekly fastened himself in.

They’d made it nearly to the highway when Poplin’s radio crackled, and Murai’s voice came through, tense and low. “It’s Trunicht’s Patriotic Knights, and there’s at least four of them right on our tail.”

Yang’s heart bumped horribly in his chest. What had happened to the Rosen Ritters? It was possible some of the knights had circled around them, but it was also possible—he shut his eyes and tried not to think about it. A second later, the car whined as Frederica floored the accelerator.

Beside Yang, Poplin was moving. “I see them,” he said. “Oh boy. They’ve got grenade launchers. This is going to be fun. Keep your head down, Admiral.” Yang sighed, but obediently lowered his head.

“I wish we had more cars,” Poplin muttered. “It’d make things a lot easier if we had at least one more to keep them off us. Oh, nice fucking _shot_, Patrichev!” There was a squealing, crashing noise somewhere outside, and Yang shuddered without meaning to. “All right, one down, three to go. Hold on, everyone.” He moved away from Yang’s side, and the loud rushing noise of the wind started suddenly. He must have rolled down the window. The loud whine of energy weapon fire started and continued.

The car suddenly slewed to the right, pressing Yang harder against the window and door. “Things are getting a little dicey!” Frederica yelled. “Keep holding on!”

“_Shit_, that was close!” Poplin shouted breathlessly. “Karin, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’ve been trained with a gun, too,” the girl’s voice retorted grimly.

“Yeah and you nearly took my fucking nose off! Be careful!”

Yang clung grimly to the door. They’d either make it through this, or they wouldn’t, and if they didn’t, at least he wasn’t going to have to worry about saving the damn Alliance again. He’d done his best.

“Got another one!” Poplin cried gleefully. “Got him right in the—oh _fuck_, Frederica, watch—”

The explosion bloomed almost slowly to Yang’s beleaguered mind. The sound vibrated through him first, but then it went from deafening to nothing in the span of a moment. There was red fire blossoming around him, and he couldn’t tell which way was up or down. Von Kreutzer’s red hair swung around in a slow, pendulous arc, and through the cracked windshield in front of her, Yang could see the obscured face of one of the Knights, smoking grenade launcher still held snugly beneath their arm. Flames were reflected in the dark glass of the motorcycle helmet.

Poplin’s arm appeared in his field of vision, and Yang looked down to see that he’d undone his seatbelt—not safe, Yang thought distractedly—and he was halfway across the spinning car interior. “Got you,” he mouthed, and then his arms were around Yang, and then everything was spinning too violently and darkly for Yang to track it. He shut his eyes.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

BUMP-CRASH-BUMP-bump-bump. Light and function returned suddenly, in a wash of adrenaline. Yang sucked in a long breath and quickly took stock of himself. Ears ringing, which wasn’t surprising. Next—leg was hurting, but it had been hurting since he woke up, so that wasn’t new. If anything, it was hurting less. The rest of his body seemed all right; he could feel something heavy lying across him, but it wasn’t so heavy it was particularly restricting his airflow, so presumably he wasn’t dying.

Surroundings now. He dragged his eyes open to discover that Poplin was what was lying on him, blood trickling from his red hair. He was half on top of Yang, half beneath him, his body interposed between Yang and the twisted metal and shattered glass of the car door. Beneath that, Yang could see grass and mud, and as his sense of gravity reasserted itself slowly, he realized the car had to be on its side. Looking up confirmed the assessment; blue sky and red flames filled the shattered window above, but the car itself didn’t seem to be burning.

_Get up_, Yang told himself. _Get up, get out_.

He levered himself up, pausing to check whether Poplin was breathing. He was, though his eyes were shut, and his face was pale. Triage, Yang reminded himself. He needed to get a check on the situation before he tried to do anything for Poplin. “Frederica?” he croaked, which was when he realized not only were his ears ringing, he couldn’t hear a damn thing. She probably couldn’t hear anything either.

Taking a deep, frustrated breath, he clambered upwards, using the backs of the front seats for leverage. Looking down, he saw that the airbags in the front had deployed, and both Frederica and von Kreutzer were starting to move. Good. They might be all right. Also good, there wasn’t much glass left on the upper window, and he was able to get a hand onto it and pull himself up to look out cautiously, good leg braced against the driver’s seat.

He was just in time to see Dusty Attenborough, face streaked with sweat and grime, press the barrel of his weapon against the back of the last Knight’s head and pull the trigger. Yang winced slightly as blood and brains spewed silently across the asphalt. The next moment, Murai and Patrichev were beside him, mouths moving. Yang pointed to his ears, and they exchanged looks. Murai reached for the car door and pulled it open, and Patrichev reached down and braced Yang beneath his elbows to help extract him from the car. The flames around them were already dying down.

Yang gestured back to the car and hoped he’d said, “Poplin’s hurt,” clearly enough. Then he staggered to his feet, nearly falling again at the pain that lanced through his bad leg. They’d left his cane back at the house. Oh, damn. Oh, _damn_. Fine. He went to his knees so that he could crawl back to the car, then used it as an impromptu source of support so that he could get the front passenger door open while Murai and Patrichev tried to get to Poplin.

Von Kreutzer blinked up at him, then shook her head slightly and reached for her seatbelt, then paused, looking down at Frederica, who was just groaning and opening her eyes. A light touch on Yang’s arm, and Alex was beside him, saying something that Yang still, frustratingly, couldn’t hear. Neither could von Kreutzer, by the looks of it. She shook her head, then reached down and gently touched Frederica’s shoulder.

Frederica blinked once, twice, then put a hand up, squinting beyond it, before finally, agonizingly slowly, reaching down to undo her seatbelt. She paused for an instant, putting a hand to her head, then continued, and, clearly a little wobbly, took von Kreutzer’s hand. Alex and Yang reached down to help her out, pulling her past von Kreutzer, who helped boost her. They got her onto solid ground, and then turned back in time to give von Kreutzer a hand, but she seemed a little more awake than Frederica, and it didn’t take more than a moment.

Sagging slightly against the side of the wrecked car, Yang reached out, pulling Frederica back against him, and she sighed into his mouth, trembling slightly against him. The kiss was only a moment long, but it was enough for Yang to taste her, to let her hold him safe, to feel her hands curling softly behind his head.

When they broke apart, it was to see that Murai and Patrichev had succeeded in retrieving Poplin from inside the car. His eyes were open now, a little glazed, beneath the blood trickling down his nose, and his face was contorted in pain. There was a quick conference between them. Yang shook his head in frustration. He pointed to Alex and said, “Paper?”

Nod. A moment later, Alex had out a yellow notebook and a pen and scribbled, _Poplin’s leg is probably broken, and we don’t have enough cars left for everyone. Murai and Patrichev say they’ll stay with him._

_ All right_, Yang wrote back. _We’ve got to keep moving._ He showed the paper briefly to von Kreutzer and Frederica, who both nodded, and then they trekked wearily to the sole remaining car. This time it was Alex who was driving. Dusty took the front, and von Kreutzer, the smallest of them, sat in the middle of the back seat between Yang and Frederica.

Yang considered for a few minutes, then pulled his hat down over his face and shut his eyes. There wasn’t much he could do to help, so he might as well get some rest.

~

Oberstein stood at attention on the bridge of the Brünhild. The entire long way from Odin to Heinessen, Reinhard had spoken not a single unnecessary word, and his hand seemed to clutch ceaselessly at the pendant he wore about his throat. He had submitted to Oberstein’s planned speech without a single criticism, somewhat to Oberstein’s surprise. He still wasn’t certain why his original suggestion had met such a vociferous negative, and he had spent quite a number of hours discussing the problem with his dog. He’d considered the argument that Reinhard was rejecting the means of the Goldenbaum Dynasty and thus far hadn’t entirely discarded it, but he had the nagging feeling that he was still missing something. But—he didn’t have to understand. If he did not, if he never did, well, that was why Reinhard was the Kaiser and he was not. So he had fulfilled the orders he had been given and written the gentlest speech he could think of, though he suspected the Free Planets Alliance would still be on the defensive, to say the least.

Heinessen glittered, a too-large green-blue star, on the viewscreen. “We should be within short-range transmission frequency now,” Oberstein said, checking the distance on one of the nearby displays. Reinhard and Hilda both looked up quickly, but it was Reinhard who spoke. “Contact Yang and Greenhill.”

Oberstein dialed in the contact information Yang had given them and waited.

And waited. The contact was made, but no one was picking up. Eventually, Yang’s pleasant voice asked them to leave a message. Oberstein looked up, saw Reinhard’s face, and promptly tuned them into one of the local news stations on Heinessen, where Job Trunicht, with a politician’s smile on his face, was talking about how, in the wake of the concern sparked by Reinhard’s announcement, the FPA government had brought Yang Wen-Li and Frederica into protective custody.

There was a sudden crash. Oberstein looked around, to see Hilda at Reinhard’s elbow. Reinhard was staring down at a mug he had clearly flung to the ground with the full force of his arm. Oberstein could not read his expression, but the gesture was clear enough. “Sir,” he said. Then, when Reinhard didn’t make a motion, and as the crew began to glance nervously at each other, louder, “Sir!”

Reinhard’s impassive face turned from the mess of porcelain shards lying inside the spreading dark stain up to Oberstein’s, and something about those remote blue eyes sent a chill through even Oberstein’s spine, though he didn’t let it show. “Sir!” he repeated loudly for the third time, “Do you really think, after all the trouble he’s given you, that _this_ will be enough to stop him?”

There was no change in Reinhard’s expression other than a minute widening of his eyes. “No,” he conceded, after a moment. Then, glancing at the floor. “Get someone to clean up this mess and then take up a defensive position just out of range of the Alliance garrison at Heinessen.”

~

They reached von Schneider’s approximate posted location after driving for ten anxious hours on a set of bumpy back roads. Wen-Li had been hidden under his hat for most of it. Frederica’s hearing was starting to come back, though the noises were still faint and filtered through a disconcerting ringing.

“Should we try to radio him?” Cazerne asked, as he pulled off the darkened road into a relatively inconspicuous public park.

Plucking his hat off his head, Wen-Li sat up and shook his head. “We need to stick to complete radio silence to avoid any possibility of being tracked,” he explained.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Dusty complained. “Are we going to throw rocks at his bedroom window?”

Wen-Li put his head on one side, then nodded and set his hat back in position. “That sounds like a fine plan.”

The other occupants of the car stared at him. “Are…are you joking?” Dusty managed, after a long minute.

“Not at all,” Wen-Li responded, voice muffled beneath his hat. “But can you imagine anyone expecting us to do that?”

Fortunately for Dusty’s plan, von Schneider lived in a second-floor apartment with a balcony, and it turned out to be relatively easy for them to reach it under the cover of darkness. Thankfully, although Frederica, Wen-Li, and von Kreutzer had all been banged up in the destruction of the first car, none of them had been as badly injured as Commander Poplin. Frederica had had a very bad headache since, and she suspected she might be concussed, but it wasn’t worth worrying about right now. There would be time to acquire proper medical care when they weren’t all in imminent danger of being shot.

They collected underneath von Schneider’s window, and Yang looked dubiously down at the gravel below them. “Maybe I shouldn’t be the one to do this,” he said with a sigh. “We don’t need my aim waking up everyone in the neighborhood.”

“What aim?” Cazerne asked with a soft smirk, but he bent down and scooped up a handful of gravel, sending the tiny missiles pelting rattatatat against the lighted window that was hopefully von Schneider’s current location.

Frederica felt her breath catch in her throat a little as they waited, and she moved closer to Wen-Li, who seemed perfectly composed, very different from the shell of the man who’d curled up in his bed yesterday and not even gotten up. Although she suspected he was still wrapped in that grief, he wasn’t showing it. But then, Frederica thought vaguely, she had taken her own grief at Julian’s death and tamped it down somewhere to handle when Wen-Li didn’t need her quite so much, and that probably wasn’t any healthier, all things considered.

After what seemed like much longer than the five minutes it probably was, a somewhat confused-looking von Schneider appeared, pulling open the glass doors of the balcony and stepping out cautiously, one hand on his sidearm. He squinted down into the semi-darkness, and it was Wen-Li who called out softly, “Commander von Schneider, can we talk to you?”

Von Schneider started, leaning down over the iron balcony. “Admiral Yang?” he said uncertainly. “Sir, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Could you come down here so we can talk more easily?”

“Just a minute, I’ll be right down.”

He arrived breathlessly a moment later. “Sir, no one has _any_ idea where you’ve been—are you—”

Wen-Li stepped forward just enough for the light from the hallway to fall onto his face—tired, so tired, so much more tired than even Frederica had realized. “Fine, thank you, Commander, but we need a ship. Badly, I’m afraid.”

There was barely even a pause. “Whatever you need, Admiral. It’s urgent, I take it?”

“Very,” Wen-Li agreed. “You may not get your ship back in one piece, I’m warning you now.”

“Well.” Von Schneider gave him a crooked smile. “For the man who gave Admiral Merkatz an honorable retirement, I’d give up more than a few ships. Do you need a ride?”

After a little more conferring, they decided to take von Schneider’s car, which was just large enough for all of them. Frederica caught Wen-Li waving regretfully to Cazerne’s car. He gave her a slightly bashful look, then shrugged.

It wasn’t a long drive to the spaceport, although Frederica found that she was looking around nervously, concerned they were being tailed, but Wen-Li’s radio silence policy seemed to have been enough to keep Trunicht off their tails for the time being. It was almost surreal, how easy it was. There weren’t many people left at the spaceport at this time of night, and von Schneider badged them in at the back, after checking to make sure no one was watching.

“I can’t give you a crew,” he said, “and if there’s only the five of you, you’re not going to want a full warship. Will one of the short-range shuttles be enough? It’s spaceworthy, but it will be quite slow, and it’s really more for ferrying between larger vessels.”

“It’ll do,” Wen-Li said quietly. “If we play our cards right, we’re just going to be ferrying up to a larger ship anyway.”

Frederica gave him a questioning look, and he replied with a crooked smile.

“Well, first of all, going to him is going to be by far our safest bet, and second of all, we’re probably going to have to stop him from starting the next war before the last one is safely in its grave.”

The shuttle von Scheider found for them was a little on the creaky and older side, but it was definitely spaceworthy, and Frederica was thankful to be back on a spaceship. “Thank you,” she said to von Schneider. “I hope you won’t get in too much trouble.”

He gave her a wave of the hand. “When you’ve defected from your home once, trouble becomes commonplace. This is important. Don’t worry about me.”

Although Frederica had expected that Wen-Li would curl up in a corner and go to sleep again, he instead opted to stay in the command center of the little shuttle. “I’ve probably slept long enough,” was his only stance on the matter, followed by a tired fluttering echo of his normal smile. “But if you happened to make tea, and the tea happened to have brandy in it, I don’t think I would say no.”

That was probably a good sign. Frederica was willing to wrestle with the ancient-looking kettle if it meant even a half-smile from him. “I don’t think they have very good tea,” she said, a little doubtfully. A quick scour of the tiny kitchen as the water boiled uncovered a few not-completely-ancient-looking teabags, but no alcohol. “Does anyone have brandy?” she asked, sticking her head back out into the main command area.

Dusty clapped Wen-Li on the shoulder. “I have you covered, don’t worry.” He pulled a little bottle out of his jacket. “I couldn’t bring much, but there should be enough for a few cups, if you ration it out.”

“We’ll share it,” Wen-Li told him firmly. “I shouldn’t have too much, anyway.”

Somehow, Frederica, with a little help from Dusty, managed to brew enough tea for the five of them, and they all sat down in a little huddle around the central command chair. Despite the obvious offer, Wen-Li slid to the floor in front of it, taking the brandy-laced tea from Frederica with a little sigh of relief.

“So what exactly _is_ our plan?” von Kreutzer asked, sipping at her tea. She had been very quiet during the journey, and even now she spoke with her eyes cast a little down, although Frederica didn’t think the cause was shyness. Worry, maybe. “I know you were talking about flying up to meet Reinhard’s ship, but frankly—why? Isn’t that sort of out of the frying pan into the fire?”

“In a way,” Wen-Li told her. “But given a choice between Reinhard and Trunicht—well, that’s not really a choice, is it?”

“But he only agreed to the treaty because you two threatened him anyway, didn’t he?” von Kreutzer asked. “At this point, I don’t understand why he hasn’t fired on the Alliance yet.”

Wen-Li smiled again, soft and a little sad. “I think he really wants to make it work,” he said. “Or part of him does, anyway. I think he really does see that we have an opportunity to make a unique peace. It’s very noble, actually.” He sipped at the tea. “Of course, honestly I was mostly focused on getting us to safety. I don’t really know how I’m going to convince him that he needs to back down entirely, and even if I do convince him to back down, I don’t really know how we’re going to fix this.”

“Have you considered fucking him?” Dusty put in.

The next second Frederica was patting Wen-Li vigorously on the back as he choked and sneezed out the mouthful of alcoholic tea he’d accidentally inhaled. She hadn’t seen an expression that poleaxed on his face since the time Julian had planned an entire surprise birthday party for him, and that time he’d nearly asphyxiated on his own spit.

“Haha, okay, maybe we’ll leave that suggestion for another time.” Dusty patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. Wen-Li waved a hand, gasped in a breath, and half-nodded, although Frederica wasn’t sure if that was agreement, or just an attempt to indicate that he wasn’t actually dying. She found she was laughing a little, flopping sideways against him, and he put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a lot of people try very hard to preserve the peace.

Fleet Admiral Alexander Bucock stared at the image on the viewscreen. It hadn’t changed over the past half hour, of course, which, all things considered, was good. It meant that, thus far, the peace treaty was still intact. How long that would remain the case, though, was anybody’s guess.

Bucock pressed his palms across his stinging eyes. He was retired. The Alliance had signed a peace treaty with the Empire. How, then, had this resulted in him back at the head of the remaining measly set of ships, finger practically on the trigger, waiting for the instant Reinhard von Lohengramm’s “investigation” became a full-fledged invasion?

But with Yang Wen-Li and Frederica Greenhill in protective custody—supposedly—there wasn’t anyone else to command the fleet. Admiral Chung Wu-Cheng was supporting him, but Chung could not be expected to coordinate the entire defense of Heinessen himself. Well, Bucock thought, with a sigh, the little taste of retirement had been nice while it had lasted.

“Sir?” one of the ensigns said, in a voice that was decidedly wobbly. “Sir, there’s something setting off the proximity alert.”

Please God let it not be a mine or an enemy ship. Trunicht had ordered them to defend Heinessen at all costs, but Bucock did not want the responsibility of being the man who ordered the destruction of this fragile peace with his own hands. He opened his eyes and looked at the viewscreen, where a small shuttlecraft was rising slowly, a chunky oblong illuminated by starlight. Its trajectory was away from Heinessen and toward the Imperial fleet, and Bucock’s heart gave a great, horrible-enough thump that for an instant he wondered if that was the last one he got. Any minute, that little ship would be within range of the Imperial guns, and if they fired—

“We can’t let them get into range of the Imperials,” Commander Janaya Giles said tightly. “Ensign Bradley, can you disable their engines?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then—”

It was a stupid thing for the ship to be doing, but if _they_ fired on it, the Imperial army might not realize what was going, which could easily reignite the hostilities they were desperately trying to avoid. Bradley was already reaching towards her console as he realized this. 

“Hold your fire! _HOLD YOUR FIRE_!” Bucock roared, and her hand darted back, as if stung. “There is _every_ chance that if we fire first, the Imperial fleet will take that as a reopening of hostilities.”

“But what if that’s what they assume that ship is?” Giles put in, a note of terrified frustration in her voice.

“We’d better damn well hope they don’t,” Bucock told her grimly.

~

Emil stood quietly to one side of the command deck, holding a pitcher of water on a tray and keeping an eye on His Majesty. Her Majesty as well, but she was less likely to faint with no warning because she had forgotten to drink water for twelve hours in a row. He was also trying to justify his presence, because although he had asked several of the junior officers, none of them seemed to know exactly what Reinhard’s plans were, or why he hadn’t ordered a full-scale assault on Heinessen immediately. Peace was, Emil supposed, all very well, but a unified peace was surely better, a unified peace beneath Kaiser Reinhard and Kaiserin Hilda.

“Incoming message from Admiral Bittenfeld, sir!” reported a young man whose name Emil didn’t know.

“Accept it,” Reinhard said, his tone of voice steady, just one notch away from bored.

The face of Admiral Fritz Josef Bittenfeld was bright with excitement as he saluted to Reinhard. “Sir, there’s a vessel approaching from Heinessen. They’ve passed the Alliance Fleet and are continuing in our direction.”

Reinhard tilted his head to the side a little. “A ‘vessel’?”

“It looks like a small shuttlecraft, sir.”

“Weapons and armaments?”

“They have a few guns, nothing that’s likely to threaten any of our ships. Shall we blow it out of the sky, sir?”

“A small shuttlecraft? Alone?”

“It’s got to be a trap.”

Reinhard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Their shields?”

“Down.”

~

“This is absolutely insane!” Karin von Kreutzer stared in shock as Admiral Yang, Miracle Yang, the hero of El Facil, reached out thoughtfully and disabled their only protection. “What are you doing? They’ll blast us out of the sky!”

“Hopefully not,” Yang told her, with a quarter of a smile.

“_Hopefully_? Sir!”

“Corporal von Kreutzer, are we attempting to attack the Imperial fleet?”

She stared at him. “No, sir.”

“Then what’s the point in acting as if we are?” He tilted his head to the side. “If that battleship—” he pointed to it, “—if they decide to shoot us out of the sky, we’re going to be dead whether or not our shields are up. Actually, if the Alliance decides to shoot us out of the sky, we’re dead as well, but I’m hoping they have more self-preservation than that.”

She couldn’t stop herself from chewing on her thumbnail, though she hated to show the nervousness, particularly in front of Admiral Yang and Dusty. Dusty patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “It’s Yang’s plan. It’ll be fine.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Yang said dryly, “But it’s in Trunicht’s interests to make absolutely certain we don’t get to Reinhard, so we’re not out of the woods yet.”

~

“We have an incoming transmission from Heinessen, Admiral Bucock,” Ensign Bradley reported.

He sighed, keeping an eye on that little shuttle that still wasn’t quite out of firing range if they stretched themselves. “Patch it through.”

“Admiral Bucock, I have something quite urgent to discuss with you.”

The sound of Trunicht’s voice made Bucock want to swear or maybe strangle someone. Chung’s calming hand on his shoulder made him cut off his desired response and replace it with a grunt that if Trunicht were really trying, he could probably interpret as “Go on,” rather than “fuck off.”

“We’ve received word that a group of Terraists have commandeered a shuttlecraft,” Trunicht said, his words almost spilling over one another. “If you sight anything like that, your orders are to stop them at all costs. They may be planning an assassination attempt against Kaiser Reinhard.”

~

Reinhard leaned forward in his chair, one hand clenching and unclenching in his lap. “It’s Yang,” he said abruptly.

“Sir?” Bittenfeld echoed, startled.

“It’s not a trap. It’s Yang.” Reinhard stood up; all eyes turned to him. He was suddenly full of energy, almost vibrating, a violin string drawn so taut it was about to snap.

“With all due respect, sir, are you sure?” Bittenfeld sounded confused, and Emil couldn’t help but echo that confusion. Yang was in protective custody, wasn’t he? “If you’re wrong—if it’s a trap—”

A roll of the eyes and a snap of the fingers. “Fine,” Reinhard said. “Fire a warning shot.”

~

Karin had to stuff her hands over her mouth to stop the shriek as the brilliant beam of energy cut through the emptiness of vacuum just beside their unprotected hull. The next moment, she was cursing under her breath, partly at her own cowardice, partly in shock, because it was one thing to be piloting her own ship, snug and safe, her life in her own hands, but it was quite another to be just sitting there, _waiting_ for someone to kill you.

“Yang,” Vice Admiral Cazerne said. “He fired at us, are you sure—”

Yang hadn’t even reacted to the shot. Now he smiled and tipped his hat back. “He didn’t fire _at_ us, he fired _near_ us,” he said. “If he’d wanted to hit us, he would have.”

~

Bucock leaned forward and switched off the communication immediately. “Sir,” Bradley said, her voice high and frightened. “Sir, they’ll be out of range of our guns in another minute and a half. Should—should we fire?”

“Under no circumstances are you to fire,” Bucock said coolly. “Send a message to Kaiser Reinhard, letting him know what Mr. Trunicht’s concerns are. If _he_ wants us to fire—”

“But won’t they be out of range by that time?”

“Ensign,” Bucock sighed. “Just how much of a threat do you think one shuttle is going to be? Besides—” He looked sideways at Chung. “What do you think?”

Chung shook his head. “If we take the wrong action right now, the Alliance isn’t going to live to regret it. But if Yang were here, he _might_ obey that command.”

“I don’t think he would,” Bucock said slowly. “And there’s one crucial difference between me and Yang, anyway.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m retired.”

~

The little ship hadn’t even paused. “See?” Reinhard said, a rare smile fluttering around the corners of his lips. “It’s Yang. Unquestionably.”

“Then why hasn’t he sent us a message of some kind?”

~

“Couldn’t we at least _tell_ them not to fire on us?”

“I’d rather keep to radio silence until we’re there. It’ll be safer if Trunicht can’t be certain where we are.”

~

“Messages can be intercepted. Open the shuttle bay and allow them dock.”

~

“There.” Yang let out his breath a little, but whether it was exultation or him betraying that he had, in fact, been a little worried, Karin wasn’t sure. “See? He’s waiting for us.”


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a certain slow burn finally ignites.

Heinessen’s sunlit side glowed green and blue, and Reinhard had a strange momentary impulse to reach out and touch it on the viewscreen. He was thrumming inside. For too long he’d been conflicted, thwarted, stifled, wrapped up in bureaucracy and redesigning a government from the ground up. But _this_ was what he was born for. This was what Kircheis’s faith in him had meant.

So why hadn’t he taken Heinessen yet?

There was a soft sound behind him, and he turned quickly. And there he was, standing in the doorway, one hand on his hat, the other at his side, holding onto the cane he was leaning heavily on. Reinhard felt words rising in the back of his throat, choking and painful. In the end all he said was, “A queen sacrifice I _wasn’t_ supposed to take?”

The smile that flickered faintly across Yang’s face vanished swiftly, but it was unmistakable. “Ah—I’m glad you saw through the trap this time.” He took a hesitant step into the room.

Reinhard wanted to step towards him, but he looked back at Heinessen and halted. He couldn’t meet Yang halfway—how could he? He turned away. “I’m glad you’re all right, Wen-Li.”

The sound of Yang’s footsteps was emphasized and shadowed by the tapping of his cane, and Reinhard didn’t want to look at him. That was his fault, too. If it hadn’t been for him, Yang would never have been in the line of fire.

“Reinhard,” Yang said quietly, and Reinhard glanced to the side to see he was leaning forward on his cane, looking up at him with dark, exhausted eyes. “The peace treaty hasn’t failed yet.”

Somehow, Reinhard had to step back. “It might as well have,” he said hoarsely. “I never wanted this. It never would have worked.” 

“Please,” Yang said, still so soft, still so tired. He was staring wearily at his reflection in the screen. “I know I don’t have any leverage anymore, and maybe that’s a good thing. Peace shouldn’t start the way this one did. But we can make it start right this time, can’t we?”

“Why should I?” Reinhard wouldn’t look at him anymore. Somehow the ache in his heart was overflowing his mouth with bitter words. “Do you think _Trunicht_ is better for your nation than me?”

“No. I told you. I don’t. I just think people need to see the possibility of a democratic system.”

“How?” Reinhard burst out. “You—what you’ve lost—”

“I’ve asked myself the same thing a thousand times in the last forty-eight hours,” Yang admitted, and Reinhard couldn’t stop himself this time from turning to face him. “I didn’t want to come here. I think if I’d been alone, I would just have let Trunicht’s little army kill me.”

“_What_.” Somehow Reinhard’s hands were on Yang’s shoulders, pulling him forward. So much for not looking at him. He was so thin, almost wraith-like, with huge dark shadows beneath his eyes, and new lines grooved into his forehead, so different from the mischievous man who had trolled Reinhard into falling for a child’s chess trap. “He tried _what_.”

“But everyone else around me cared,” Yang continued, his voice, at least, unperturbed by Reinhard’s outburst. “Frederica obviously, but it wasn’t just her. And you know, I guess I feel like I owe it to them and to the people down there.” He nodded at the little glowing shape of Heinessen. “So won’t you—” he held out a hand, let it fall. It landed on Reinhard’s chest.

The pain rose up to choke him again. He wanted—he _wanted_—but he couldn’t. He owed them, he thought. He couldn’t let them down, not even for Yang Wen-Li. What kind of man would he be then?

“I can’t—I _can’t_—because—” He couldn’t even say the words. Finally, without any other way to make himself clear, he unclasped the pendant from around his neck and shoved it towards Yang. “For them, I can’t.”

Yang took it, opened it, looked inside. Reinhard felt pain shoot through his chest, as if someone had cracked his rib-cage open. But Yang’s eyes as he looked at the picture and lock of hair inside were soft. Then they widened ever-so-slightly. “Ah—who is the woman?”

The question broke through the dam choking off Reinhard’s words. “My sister. She and Kircheis—I promised them that I would take the universe, and I can’t—I can’t let them down. They’re the only ones I’ve ever—” He cut himself off, because a vision of Hilda rose up in front of him. And he didn’t really need a vision of Yang, when the man was standing right in front of him. “I can’t.”

“I met her,” Yang said.

“I want to,” Reinhard whispered, the sudden flame of his own desire overwhelming him even as he realized he possessed it. “I want—wait, you—what? You what?”

“I met your sister.”

Reinhard stared at him. That wasn’t possible. She’d been in seclusion at her retreat since Kircheis had died. “What do you mean?” he said.

“She found me hiding after the sedoretu ceremony on Odin.” Yang frowned. “You know, in retrospect that conversation makes a lot more sense now. Probably her covert way of letting me know she would break both my legs if I hurt her little brother.”

“She wasn’t _at_ the sedoretu ceremony,” Reinhard objected. “She’s been in seclusion—” Or had she? If she had _been_ there—then when he’d seen her reflection—had it _actually been Annerose_?

It was suddenly strangely difficult for him to get air. For so many days, he’d been torturing himself over what Kircheis and Annerose would think, and now—she’d been at the sedoretu. She’d spoken to Yang. She’d—

“You met Kircheis once as well, didn’t you?” He was clutching at Yang’s hands.

“I did, yes. He seemed like a good man. I was sorry when I heard—well.” Yang breathed out. He was fighting for this peace; he was fighting so hard, when he’d lost his ward. His son.

“How are you still upright, when you’re not fighting?” Reinhard blurted.

“What?”

“I know, I know, I keep—I keep asking you, and I—” His eyes were stinging. “We have the same conversation, over and over again. But you’re _here_ now, even after what you lost. And it’s not a battle, it’s got to be so much harder.”

For the first time, Yang’s hands began to tremble. Reinhard could tell, because his hands were on top of them. “I don’t—” He shut his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. “I lay in bed for three weeks. I couldn’t even get up. The only thing that got me to act was warning you of a possible threat, and even then—I don’t know. My friends helped, but it’s—it’s—” Yang choked, leaned forward, and suddenly Reinhard found that he had his arms around him. This was what he should have done a month ago, when the message came, instead of running away like a coward, unable to bear the sight of Yang’s face, cracking.

“Ah—I’m crying.” Yang sounded surprised.

“You’re allowed,” Reinhard said, with a slightly bitter laugh. He put a hand on the back of Yang’s head and drew him closer, listening to the sound of his soft sobbing. Something inside his chest was cracking again. Perhaps the lonely path wasn’t the only one left for him, after all.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. It might have been five minutes or five hours, but at the end of it, when Yang pulled back, Reinhard tipped his face up and used his thumbs to gently flick away the remaining tears. “Do you really think that this peace can work?” he asked, his voice coming out almost pleading.

Yang looked up at him. “I think it’s better to try and fail than not to try,” he said seriously.

“Even with the attempts to kill both of us, the lack of trust on both sides, the _history_ between the Empire and the Alliance? Even with what feels like the entire universe working against us?”

Those dark eyes flickered sideways for an instant and then Yang pushed himself upward on his cane and before Reinhard knew what was happening, he was being kissed. Clumsily, just lips-to-lips, no other contact, but it felt like—

It didn’t feel _like_ anything. But it felt perfect, all the same.

~

Yang hadn’t really intended to act on Dusty’s advice; even the moment before he’d pushed himself up to close the distance between himself and Reinhard he hadn’t been entirely aware of what he was about to do. He almost started to pull back and apologize—what business did he have kissing Reinhard, after the forced sedoretu—but before he could do anything of the sort, Reinhard’s hands fell onto his shoulders and he pulled Yang against him crushingly hard, deepening the kiss and actually moaning into his mouth.

In a moment, Reinhard’s tongue lathed along Yang’s bottom lip, and he opened his mouth, leaning his weight forward, letting Reinhard deepen the kiss. That golden hair brushed his cheekbone, and, unthinkingly, he reached up to tangle his hands in it, then tumbled forward as his bad leg gave out. The cane clattered to the floor, well out of his reach.

Reinhard caught him, one hand securely under his waist, and brushed a lock of hair out of Yang’s eyes. “I’ve never before met anyone with such stubborn hair,” he murmured. Then he kissed Yang again, slow and deep, their mouths moving against one another in a way that made heat start to simmer in Yang’s belly. He twisted his hands in that silky, golden hair.

Wordless exclamation, and Reinhard’s hand tightened on his waist. “You always know what move to make, don’t you?” he murmured. “How do you do it?”

“A talent for improvisation and a good deal of luck,” Yang laughed back, then kissed the side of Reinhard’s mouth. “Besides, don’t be modest. You’re rarely at a loss yourself.”

“Well.” The piercing blue eyes seemed to gentle a little. “Will you come to bed with me?”

Yang had the sensation of looking down from a very high place, but he wanted nothing more than to lean into the giddiness. “Yes,” he murmured after a moment. “You’ll have to excuse a little clumsiness in an old man who hasn’t done this much.”

“You’re not ol—” Sudden, startled blink. “Are you not—do you not like men?”

“What?” Yang cocked his head to the side in puzzlement. “Oh, no, I meant with anyone. Frederica was the first time I—”

“Why?”

“It didn’t come up?”

“You are _such_ a peculiar man.” Reinhard ducked his head a little, a red flush dusting the tops of his cheeks. “But I must admit I’m not exactly averse to being a first for you, Miracle Yang.”

Reinhard and Hilda’s quarters, adjoining the foyer, were frankly palatial. Yang stared around them, realizing he’d never actually been on the _Brünhild_ before, which wouldn’t have meant much if it hadn’t been for the canopied bed that was big enough for at least four people. There was a chess board set to one side of the room, the pieces set in the middle of a game, and a crammed-full bookshelf that immediately drew Yang’s attention. He broke away from Reinhard’s embrace and started toward it, only to remember he didn’t have his cane.

Reinhard caught him again, chuckling. “You can read the books later,” he said. “If you don’t mind giving me a little of your precious time beforehand.”

His cheeks and ears went hot. “Sorry, books are just, um…hard for me to ignore.” Although that hadn’t exactly been the case for the last three weeks, had it? There was something odd happening inside him, a tight, horrible knot that was starting to unspool as Reinhard kissed his face, kissed his eyelids, kissed his mouth, light and gentle. Everything painful felt distant, somehow, but distant in a way that was different from the cloak of numbness that had overwhelmed him since Julian’s death.

“Hold still,” Reinhard murmured in his ear, and then his arms were under Yang’s knees and back, and he was being swept up into a bridal carry. Yang made an undignified squeaking noise, then laughed at himself. Reinhard kissed him on the mouth again, long and deep until Yang felt like he was drowning in dark, safe waters. He took a long, gasping, shuddering breath, and Reinhard deposited him gently on the bed and began to undo the buttons of his uniform jacket with the particular single-minded determination Yang had usually seen him reserve for chess and similar pursuits.

For a dreamy moment, Yang simply let Reinhard push the jacket off his shoulders, raised his arms to help as Reinhard slipped the t-shirt underneath up and over his head, and then realized that Reinhard himself was still wearing all of his clothes, which was really rather a pity. As Reinhard’s slim, long-fingered hands reached for his belt, he undid the fastenings of the long white cloak and listened to the soft _shhhhhfff_ of cloth as it slid to the floor and pooled at Reinhard’s feet.

He started to undo the buttons of Reinhard’s black uniform jacket, but before he could get very far, the Kaiser went to his knees in front of him, tossing Yang’s belt to the side and unzipping the top of his trousers. He gasped as the tightness he’d barely registered was relieved, then gasped against as Reinhard looked up through hooded eyes, that dark flush on his cheeks darker than ever, and then put his mouth onto Yang’s erection.

Yang had no idea what kind of noise he made at the sensation, although he knew he’d definitely made one, and he put the palm of his hand into his mouth and bit down to stop himself from coming right away into that slick heat. Not that he cared particularly about the embarrassment, but he didn’t want to fail to give Reinhard warning, and he wasn’t exactly young enough to expect that a second round would be forthcoming terribly quickly once the first one was over. “Damn,” he panted. “Damn it, you’re—_aaaaaahhhh_—”

Pain and pleasure mingled as he moaned, falling back onto the bed because he couldn’t support himself anymore. “Reinhard—_Reinhard_—”

“Mmmm,” Reinhard hummed, and that was more, so much, almost too much—“Unless you want me to come, you’re going to have to stop,” Yang choked out, though his tongue was heavy in his mouth.

One more long, wet, delightful sweep of pleasure, and Reinhard’s mouth was gone. The next moment he loomed over Yang on the bed, one hand on either side of his head. “Well,” he murmured huskily, “While I would enjoy the Hero of El Facil coming down my throat as he screams my name, perhaps that’s for another day.”

Yang’s hips twitched of their own accord at the description, and he covered his face with his hands. “You’re a menace,” he muttered. “I should have known.” Peeking through the gaps of his splayed fingers, he found he was watching Reinhard again, as the man finished stripping off his shirt and began to slip off his trousers. He was pale and slim and golden, narrow-chested and well-muscled, his bright blue hawk-like eyes oddly gentle as he gazed down at Yang. _I supposed ‘golden-haired brat’ is one way to talk about Adonis…good god._

Abruptly self-conscious, Yang was suddenly aware of his own definitely less-than-whelming physique. His arms were skinny, his stomach starting to show an unfortunate tendency towards potbelly, and his scars, unlike Reinhard’s, didn’t look like the necessary blemishes of a unified whole, just like the first signs of cracks of a vase that would eventually or not-so-eventually be coming apart.

Hands on his hands. Reinhard tugged them gently down from Yang’s face. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong?”

“You’re beautiful,” Yang told him frankly. “And I’m really not.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Reinhard replied.

“I’m a mess.”

“And you think I’m not?”

“Well—you’re a beautiful mess.”

Reinhard laughed, straddling Yang on the bed. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to predict you.”

“Good, unpredictability is my only strategy for winning at chess.”

Another laugh. “Get your damn trousers off,” Reinhard said, his voice sounding exasperatedly fond.

Yang canted his hips up. “Take them off yourself, I’m lazy.”

Huff. Then Reinhard got back up off the bed and began to drag Yang’s trousers down, slowly, watching him the entire time with an intense blue-eyed stare that made Yang simultaneously melty and prickly all over. He paused, breath hitching, as he pulled them down over Yang’s thighs, a little frown deepening between his eyes.

“What is it?” Yang asked, following his gaze, then realized Reinhard was looking at the puckered red scar at the top of his leg, healed over but still not the inoffensive white of his older injuries.

Reinhard’s hand was trembling as he ghosted across it. “That was when—I knew,” he said, suddenly solemn, suddenly back to his usual serious, intense persona. “That if I lost you, it would kill me. I thought it had.” Before Yang really had a chance to process this, he had dipped his head and was kissing the scar. Yang’s leg trembled underneath him, the pain of it bringing stinging tears to his eyes. Before he could protest, Reinhard had drawn back. “I’m sorry, I simply—I’m sorry.” Had he made a noise? Yang wasn’t sure.

“You…that long ago?” he asked, his voice cracking as he spoke. “Even after the sedoretu?”

“Wen-Li. Look at me.” Yang realized he had turned his face to the side to let the tears slip out. “It wasn’t the wrong thing to do. There wasn’t a right thing.” Reinhard’s smile was wobbly, a strange look for his regal face. “And in retrospect, I’m rather glad you didn’t blast my ship out of the sky.”

He finished getting Yang’s trousers and socks off, then turned back to him. “How would you prefer to do this?” he asked. “I’ve been in both positions, with—with Sieg, so—so whatever you would like.”

Yang, who had been in the middle of squirming up the bed so that his legs weren’t dangling over the edge anymore, paused and looked up at him. “Hm? Both positions?”

Reinhard, starting to move towards the nightstand for something, paused. “Would you prefer to penetrate, or would you prefer me to penetrate you?” Although he spoke the words without a trace of self-consciousness, the red flush was rising high on his cheekbones again.

“Oh—ah—right.” Yang looked down at Reinhard’s hard cock, curving gently upwards, the tip of it gleaming with fluid. It was just as slim and beautiful as the rest of him. His ears went hot. “I think—I want you inside me. If you don’t mind putting in the work to handle an inexperienced old man like me.”

Reinhard’s cock twitched. “I don’t remotely—I, yes, definitely.” He completed his motion towards the nightstand, pulling out a little bottle. “You’d better get up to the top of the bed,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes a little dilated. Yang complied, lying back against a delightfully soft medley of pillows. “Let’s put a pillow under your thighs, it should help. I don’t want to strain your leg.”

With another expression of intense concentration that made Yang squirm beneath it, Reinhard carefully took a pillow and slipped it under his hips, running his hands across Yang’s thighs in a way that made him pant and gasp. He took the bottle and poured some clear liquid into his hand. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, with a slightly challenging grin, and then he slipped a finger inside Yang. 

“_Ah!_” Was it too much, Yang wondered. He’d never really had anything foreign inside him like this, and it felt—strange. But not bad. Not bad at all, though his legs were trembling weakly at the unusual intrusion. Reinhard watched him intently, sliding the finger in and out, getting him used to the feeling of it. After a moment, as Yang relaxed, he added a second, and then he did—_something_—that had Yang arching off the bed and cursing at the bright, desperate heat spiking through his cock and belly.

“My aim is as impeccable as ever, I see,” Reinhard grinned, and did it again. The heat and pleasure swelled in Yang with no outlet, and he found he was hitching his hips desperately back against Reinhard’s hand, groaning.

He felt Reinhard’s warm weight on top of him, though the fingers didn’t leave, still moving slowly and slickly in and out. “Are you ready for me, Wen-Li?” Reinhard murmured, breath hot on his ear.

“I—I don—you’d know better,” Yang gasped between the shivering waves of pleasure.

“Perhaps I’ll tease you a little longer,” Reinhard told him, and Yang felt teeth close gently on his ear, a hand tweaking one nipple, and he writhed, moaning something nonsensical. “You said you weren’t beautiful, but like this you certainly are,” Reinhard’s low voice continued, relentless. “You’re so open, your hair is all over the place, and you look so _wanton_, Wen-Li. Your lips are so red and swollen—someday perhaps you’ll use those on me, I can see it now, you, with my cock in your mouth, kneeling in front of me. You’d be good for me, wouldn’t you?” Stunned and dazed, Yang found he was nodding. The images were too vivid, so vivid he could almost feel the silky flesh on his tongue. Helpfully, Reinhard ran a finger across his bottom lip, and Yang sucked it in immediately, getting a surprised gasp and moan in response.

Reinhard’s fingers inside him, front and back. Reinhard’s weight on top of him, both of them moaning now. “I don’t think I can wait much longer,” Reinhard breathed. “Can I, please, can I—”

“You’re the one who wanted to tease me,” Yang pointed out, mumbling a little around Reinhard’s fingers. “So you have no one but yourself to blame.”

Reinhard growled something incomprehensible in answer, and his fingers withdrew. A small sad sound escaped from Yang’s lips at the abrupt emptiness, but he didn’t have long to mourn, because the next instant he felt something that was definitely not Reinhard’s fingers pressing at his entrance. “Relax,” Reinhard told him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I told you,” Yang got out somehow. “I’m an old man.”

“No, you’re not.” Reinhard’s hand reached out and slid down Yang’s cock, one long single stroke, but it was enough to have him melting into the bed again, and enough—it seemed—for Reinhard’s design, because the other man grunted and then he was inside Yang, filling him even more than the fingers had.

“Oh God,” Yang moaned. “_Please_.”

Reinhard’s eyes were very bright, and as he brushed Yang’s hair back from his face with one long-fingered hand to kiss him on the cheek, he chuckled delightedly. “I like it when you call me that.”

Yang favored him with as unimpressed a look as he could manage, considering that quite a lot of his reactions were still tied up in the feeling of Reinhard inside him. “Congratulations on deliberately misunderstanding me.”

“Hook—hook your legs behind my back—_haaa—_yes—like that—is that all right?”

His leg twinged slightly, but not much, and beneath the cornucopia of the rest of the sensations, it really didn’t register. “Better than fine,” he breathed. “Please. I need—I need—”

Reinhard slid out slowly, then thrust back in, and Yang’s head fell back onto the pillows. “Ah—_ah—Reinhard_—”

“You’re—so—beautiful,” Reinhard gasped, each word punctuated with a new thrust, a new spike of pleasure, leaving Yang drowning in it, barely able to keep his eyes open. He could swear Reinhard was glowing, bright and gold, the sun rising to crown a new day. “God, how long have I wanted to do this—you’re so utterly brilliant, and now—now—” he rocked his hips into Yang, changing his angle slightly so that every thrust sent sparks bursting in front of Yang’s eyes, “—now you’re _mine_,” Reinhard growled, and Yang shouted as his entire world dissolved into gold.

He was gasping and sticky; he’d come all across his stomach without even realizing it was about to happen, and Reinhard was still thrusting into him, head flung back, mouth open, words gone. Yang reached up, panting, limp, wrung-out, and cupped Reinhard’s cheek with his hand. “I’m yours,” he said gently, and Reinhard’s blue eyes flew open, and he gasped, thrusting once more, his thighs trembling against Yang’s as he filled him.

For a long moment, they stared at one another, Yang’s heartbeat slowly falling back to a normal resting rate. Then Reinhard, shuddering, pulled out, and flopped down at Yang’s side, only to turn over immediately and wrap himself around the other man. He was very warm. They were both very warm, and very sticky. Reinhard pillowed his head against Yang’s shoulder, and Yang curled an arm up around his back. To an outside observer, he thought, with amusement, they must both look absolutely wrecked. With a soft sigh, he turned and dropped a kiss on Reinhard’s nose. Reinhard made a startled noise, opening his eyes, then laughed tenderly and leaned up on one elbow to smooth Yang’s hair back from his forehead and then kiss him there, in the center of it, quick and chaste. 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the galaxy watches.

Early morning sunlight filtered into the office of the Peace Party on Heinessen. Jan Erikssen was yawning as she poured a cup of bitter black coffee and sat down in front of her computer. Time to check messages. In her own, nothing much, just a set of articles about the current standoff between Reinhard and the Alliance, along with no updates on Yang Wen-Li’s whereabouts. She sighed. Further war was inevitable, she supposed, and they were going to lose, so there wasn’t much point in worrying anymore. With a slightly bitter grin, she looked over at the betting pool on the office whiteboard. Fumiko was the only person betting on peace. Everyone else was just making bets about who was going to fire the first shot. Currently, Reinhard was in the lead, with Trunicht close behind. Someone had put money on Fezzan overnight. Maybe a joke.

Erikssen clicked over to the other message box she always checked. Jessica Edwards might be dead, but the Peace Party and a few of Jessica’s close contacts in the newspaper industry kept her communications alive and running, as a memorial tribute of some kind, though it was relatively rare for people to send anything to it these days.

To her surprise, there _was_ a new email, from a sender Erikssen didn’t recognize. The title was simply, “Truce.” The body of the message said, “I suggest you disseminate these materials,” and there was a single video file attached.

Frowning, Erikssen checked it for corruption or viruses, but it was clean. Shrugging, she started to open it when she heard the office door open, and Jerry Chen entered, giving her a tired wave. “Morning, I—” he paused, staring behind her at her computer screen. “Holy _shit_, what is _that_?”

“I don’t know, I just got it from an unknown sender.” Erikssen turned back, mouth dropping open at the sight on her screen. “Oh, my god. Oh, my _god_. Should—should we—what do we _do_ with this?”

“Are you kidding? This is _huge_. We broadcast it to _everyone_.”

“Isn’t that a little, uh, invasive?”

“I think right now that’s probably the least of our concerns,” Jerry pointed out, nodding to the whiteboard, and Erikssen, after another moment, still staring at the screen, listening to the dialogue, was forced to agree.

“Besides,” she said, quietly. “I think he’d want—I mean, for peace, right?”

Jerry nodded. “For peace.”

~

Crowded vacation spots were an excellent location to keep a finger on the pulse of politics without exposing oneself too much to people, Adrian Rubinsky thought, leaning back in his chair and sipping at a mimosa. It was easy to get lost in a crowd.

And there were so _many_ different groups of people on Fezzan. To his left, a group of disgruntled Imperial nobles, not actually defectors or fugitives, but rumbling with discontent over the “sham of a sedoretu.” To his right, three young Alliance citizens, here on a summer trip, murmuring anxiously amongst themselves about the impending reignition of the war. To his back, two Fezzanese traders commiserating with one another over the current situation.

It should be today, Rubinsky thought clinically. Perhaps they’d manage to squeeze another twelve hours out of the standoff, but he thought it unlikely. The end was fast approaching for the Alliance, which should work out nicely, both for the Terraists and for Rubinsky himself. The ensuing chaos accompanying the devolution of the mock sedoretu would lend itself very well towards letting him re-establish his power base. It might be a long game, but he could be very patient if he had to be.

The television, which had been showing some insipid game show, flickered and fuzzed. _A MESSAGE FROM THE FREE PLANETS ALLIANCE PEACE PARTY FROM AN ANONYMOUS CORRESPONDENT_, flashed across the screen. Rubinsky leaned forward. Was this it? Around him, all the chatter was slowly dying down.

The footage was slightly grainy and a little distant, probably recorded by a personal camera or an implanted optical device. The warping around the edge suggested it had been captured through a small aperture, a keyhole or the edge of a door-frame or similar. But the two figures standing across from one another, slightly off-center, were unmistakable.

“Oh my god!” squeaked one of the Alliance members, a short girl, probably under twenty, with her black hair cut straight across. “That’s—that’s—”

“Do you really think that this peace can work?” Kaiser Reinhard asked, and the intimacy of his body language, both hands resting on Admiral Yang Wen-Li’s face, made a chill run down Rubinsky’s spine.

~

“I think it’s better to try and fail than not to try.”

“Classic Yang, haaaa.” Poplin sat up in the hospital bed, causing Patrichev and Murai to head immediately to his side, and Schönkopf to look up, face crinkling into a grin. It turned out the local hospital was only too happy to help out some victims of the Patriotic Knights Corp, and they had been huddled in Poplin’s room, wondering and worrying, for long hours now. “’M fine,” Poplin said, speech only a little slurred. “Just the painkillers.”

~

“Sir, wake up! Admiral Bucock! _Sir_!” Bucock dragged himself groggily out of a fitful nap that had lasted—glancing at the clock—at least an hour longer than he’d intended.

“What is it?” he mumbled, rubbing a hand across his face. “Is it the end?”

“Rather the opposite, I think?” Chung sounded far more agitated than Bucock had ever heard him, a kind of desperate hope animating his voice. He pointed a shaking finger at one of the small viewscreens that, against all protocol, had been tuned to a public frequency, where Yang stood, a small, unassuming figure, dark against the gold-and-white form of the Kaiser.

_“Do you really think this peace can work?_”

~

“Even with the attempts to kill both of us, the lack of trust on both sides, the history between the Empire and the Alliance? Even with what feels like the entire universe working against us?”

Alliance and Empire watched, breathless, the words that had been on everyone’s lips hanging in the air. A sham sedoretu, they called it, a last-ditch effort at peace that was bound to fail. There was no way to untie the knot of history between the two powers, and the only inevitable ending was for that knot to tighten, for the peace to unravel, because what answer could possibly be sufficient?

In her small chalet high in the mountains, Annerose leaned forward in her chair, her embroidery forgotten. On a Fezzan merchant ship near Terra, an exhausted teenager stared at the screen, breath caught in his throat. Hilda and Frederica, chatting with each other and waiting patiently, looked up, each reaching for the other’s hand. Adrian Rubinsky’s hand clenched tightly around his cool glass, and around him, all voices were silent.

Yang moved forward, the answer on his lips.

~

Wolf-whistles filled the hospital room as the feed fuzzed and shifted. On the _Brünhild_, Dusty Attenborough stood up and dropped his mug of coffee. “OH MY GOD—” Beside him, Karin von Kreutzer blushed and looked away from the screen. Alex Cazerne felt that he probably _should_ look away, but he couldn’t quite.

You couldn’t see much, in any case; the camera was far enough away that the only thing in sight was Reinhard’s blond head and his white back, though his and Yang’s voice were clear enough.

_“What is it?”_

_ “That was when—I knew. That if I lost you, it would kill me_.”

On Heinessen, Job Trunicht was screaming into a telephone to institute a media blackout. On the street below, a group of schoolgirls had all dropped their books as they stared up at the public viewscreens.

“_Even after the sedoretu?_” The entire galaxy heard the Hero of El Facil’s voice wobble a little.

_“Wen-Li. Look at me. It wasn’t the wrong thing to do. There wasn’t a right thing.”_

The glass shattered in Rubinsky’s hand. Admiral Oskar Reuenthal, deployed with Reinhard’s fleet, passed a hand across his face and found that his cheeks, oddly, were wet. Wolfgang Mittermeyer jogged his elbow. “You owe me ten bottles of wine,” he said, in a low voice, and Oskar jerked out a cracked laugh, turned, and embraced him without thinking.

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s no way to cut this off now,” Trunicht’s aide told him, and Trunicht mopped his forehead agitatedly, then slumped into his seat. They’d have to believe he’d tried his best, anyway.

The feed shivered again, and the young man on the Fezzanese merchant ship, who had peeked over his hand, sighed and covered his eyes again. “Did not need to see that,” he muttered, but his voice was amused.

There still wasn’t really all that much to see, just Yang and Reinhard tangled around each other, the sheets covering anything that might have been considered risqué, but on the other hand, from the flushed faces and sweaty hair, there was absolutely no mistaking what had just transpired. As everyone watched, Yang kissed Reinhard’s nose and Reinhard reciprocated with a tender forehead kiss.

One of the Fezzanese merchants in the bar with Rubinsky blew out a breath and laughed shakily in the direction of the Imperials. “Not such a sham sedoretu now, eh?”


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a homecoming.

Space was vast and filled with bright stars, but to Hilda, right now, it was Heinessen that shone the brightest. She should, perhaps, be upset that Yang and Reinhard’s most private moment had been broadcast to, well, the entire galaxy, but in the midst of her relief at watching the Alliance and the Empire shake off their mutual aggression and sag back away from the renewal of war, she found she didn’t have much emotion left over for the other. And from what she knew of him, she suspected Yang’s response would be the same, although Reinhard’s—well, Reinhard’s might not.

“Coffee?” Frederica appeared at her elbow, looking a little sleepy. “I made tea as well, since they can’t really sleep much longer. I figured we could ambush them before all four of us get sucked into the diplomatic hell that I assume we’re going to be dealing with for the next few days.”

“Thank you.” It felt so natural, now, for Hilda to kiss her morning wife on the cheek as she leaned over to take the coffee cup. “I can’t exactly believe it,” she admitted. “Everything’s happened so fast. I thought you and Yang might be dead, and I was so afraid of what would happen when that was confirmed that I didn’t even have time to grieve, and now you’re _not_ dead, and—”

Frederica patted her hand. “Things moved fast for us, too.” She put a hand on her head. “We’ll need to make sure Commander von Schneider is commended and not stripped of rank or fired, although it’ll be hard for Trunicht to do anything terrible in the current climate, I think.”

“We still have to get him out of office,” Hilda said harshly. “Reinhard isn’t the only one who wanted to drag him out of there and have him imprisoned without trial.”

Small smile. “Oh, I’m sure. But you can’t.”

Hilda breathed out hard, containing her anger, as she sipped her coffee. “I know,” she said, low and angry. “Doesn’t stop me from wanting to.”

“Honestly at this point, I think that’s most people’s reaction to Trunicht,” Frederica said, with another tired grin.

The door at the other side of the private breakfast room opened, and they both looked over to see Reinhard, wearing a robe open practically to the waist, yawning, and looking much more cheerful than Hilda had seen him look in probably over a month. “Coffee?” he asked. “I smelled coffee.”

“Coffee,” Frederica responded, nodding solemnly. She went back to the heated pitcher and poured a new cup. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Both,” Reinhard said. Then, apparently as an afterthought, “Please.”

Hilda cleared her throat. “Reinhard,” she said. “There’s something you need to know.”

Both elegant eyebrows went up as he accepted a cup of coffee from Frederica. “The way you say that suggests I’m not going to like it.”

“Well…you might like the outcome?”

“What’s the outcome?”

“Peace between the Alliance and the Empire,” Frederica put in, a little quickly. The door opened again as she spoke, letting a very sleepy-looking Yang wander in. He’d apparently managed to put on pajama pants, but not much else, and he was leaning lightly on his cane.

“Who leaked our sex tape?” he asked, with a surprisingly mischievous grin.

Reinhard’s face contorted with pain as he choked on the presumably burning-hot mouthful of coffee he’d just taken.

“Ah—” Hilda stammered. “Well, I don’t—um, I don’t know, exactly, yet, we’ll find out, of course—Reinhard, are you all right?”

A long sigh, a quick look around at the three of them. “I suppose so,” Reinhard said. “I think I may have implicitly promised not to continue attempting to take over the entire galaxy personally last night.” He glanced sideways at Yang. “And that is a promise that, on my honor, I will not break.”

Slight smile. Yang reached out and squeezed his hand. “I know,” he said gently. Then he sighed, deflating a little, and went over to get himself a cup of tea. “There is still Trunicht to handle,” he said, the animation draining from his form as he slumped over it. Frederica went to him immediately, and began to massage his back, and he looked up at her with another smile.

“Yes,” Hilda agreed. “It’s not exactly safe for any of us for him to remain in a position of power.”

Reinhard made an assenting noise as he sipped his coffee, but before the conversation could continue, someone knocked on the exterior door. Hilda looked over to Reinhard, who shrugged. “Let them in. The entire galaxy has seen more of me than this already, apparently.”

As Yang chucked tiredly, Hilda went over to let in the person outside, who turned out to be Oberstein. “Urgent transmission from Müller’s ship,” he reported.

“Müller?” Reinhard looked up. “He isn’t with our fleet, correct?”

“We sent him to support the Wahlen Fleet,” Hilda said, then winced as she glanced back at Yang.

“Oh—that’s right. Well, go ahead and—” Reinhard followed her gaze. “Maybe I should take this myself.”

“It’s all right,” Yang said quietly, though he wasn’t looking at them. “I’m not that fragile. I should also hear what he has to say.”

“Patch it through then,” Reinhard ordered Oberstein, who nodded and headed back out. A few minutes later, the view of the Heinessen and the stars shimmered and was replaced by Admiral Müller and, standing beside him, a young man Hilda thought she ought to recognize, with longish blond hair falling about his face, wearing civilian clothing and saluting.

There was a smashing noise to her right, and she looked over to see that Yang had gotten up so quickly that he’d swept his teacup onto the ground. Frederica caught and steadied him before he could fall backwards, but he apparently hadn’t even noticed her, all his attention pinned to the viewscreen, one hand outstretched. “Julian?” he croaked.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to contact you. I had some trouble finding a way off-planet; I was stuck in the Terran mountains for a few weeks before I managed to get back to civilization and find a Fezzanese ship that was willing to take me onboard,” Julian Mintz explained. “I’m okay, Admiral, I—I’m fine.”

“He had a bit of a nasty bump on the head, but it’s been well-treated,” Admiral Müller put in.

Yang sank back into his chair, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking.

“Are you all right?” Julian said, voice concerned. Yang raised one hand and gave him a shaky thumbs’ up sign.

“He just needs a minute, I think,” Frederica said. “Julian, we thought you were dead.”

“Yeah, so I heard. If I’d realized they’d reported me KIA, I would have tried to contact you faster, I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

Reinhard moved swiftly, suddenly, around to Yang’s other side and took his hand, and Hilda, belatedly, moved closer as well, though she wasn’t really sure what her night brother needed. After a moment, Yang took a long, gulping, shuddering breath, passed his free hand across his face, and sat back up. “You didn’t have any way of knowing, it’s fine,” he told Julian. “I’m—just glad you’re all right. Do you have anything to report?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely. A lot.” He held up a thin diskette. “I downloaded as much as I could of the Terraists’ central database. Some of it is encrypted, but I think we’ll be able to crack it with the right resources. And—” he smiled widely, showing his teeth. “—on the unencrypted part, guess whose name comes up a whole _lot_ under payments rendered? A Mr. Job Trunicht.”

Hilda’s mouth almost dropped open, and Reinhard gave a sharp exclamation. Yang said nothing, but when Hilda looked over, his eyes were glittering. “Excellent work, Julian,” he breathed. Then he smiled, and Hilda wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Miracle Yang smile so widely before.

~

The first thing Julian saw when he stepped on the bridge of the _Brünhild_ was Yang, standing just a little sideways so he could support himself on his cane. Julian had intended to be military and professional on his arrival, but he was suddenly ten years old again, and his bedroom door was swinging open as his guardian swooped in to save him from screaming nightmares.

The next second he was across the room and in Yang’s arms, one of Yang’s arms across his back, the other on his head, pressing him close as both of them sank to the floor in a confused heap. Julian’s face was wet, which was ridiculous. He wasn’t a child anymore. Then he heard Yang’s voice choke out a sob. “Please don’t ever scare me like that again,” Yang said softly in his ear.

“I’m sorry,” Julian choked. “Fair’s fair, though, isn’t it?” He patted Yang’s leg gently.

“You have me there.” Yang went quiet and just held him, and Julian decided he really had no particular reason to move yet.

They stayed like that for five or ten minutes before Lieutenant Greenhill—no, he should call her Frederica now, shouldn’t he?—leaned over and said, “Welcome back, Ensign Mintz.”

Reluctantly, Julian peeled himself out of Yang’s arms so he could get up and offer his guardian a hand up. Yang grimaced a little, but he didn’t seem to have too much trouble getting up, which laid at least some of Julian’s concerns to rest. Yang seemed to notice Julian’s expression, because he put a hand on Julian’s shoulder and said, “It’ll probably improve with time.”

“Julian, isn’t it?” Kaiser Reinhard swept into the room, closely followed by Kaiserin Hildegarde.

“Um, yes, Ensign Mintz, at your service.” Julian had met him before, of course, at the first instantiation of the sedoretu, but the atmosphere had been so tense he hadn’t really paid any specific attention to Reinhard. Now he was struck by the intense force of personality the man exuded. No wonder he’d succeeded as brilliantly as he had. Just standing here, Julian found himself trying to hide his nerves.

“I want to know what you’ve found about Job Trunicht, Ensign Mintz.”

“Right away, sir. I’ll just need a computer system.”

The group brought him to a small server room, where he was immediately distracted by half the Yang Fleet crowding around him to clap him on the back and tell him “welcome home.”

Walter von Schönkopf told him, “Good thing you’re all right, your old man was beside himself,” and then introduced him to his daughter—since when had he had a _daughter_?—Karin.

Dusty clapped him on the back and said, “Shame that Poplin can’t be here to see how well you’ve done, but he’ll be back on his feet soon enough.”

Amid the well-wishes and congratulations, Julian found his way to a computer and inserted the disk. “I’ll download the unencrypted data now and—well, what should we do with it?” He was starting the download as he spoke.

“Release it.” Reinhard leaned across him, and Julian moved awkwardly to the side to let him see the download’s progress.

“Won’t Trunicht have a media blackout in place, after, um…” He refused to look at Yang as he spoke. “After this morning?”

Embarrassed cough from Yang.

“It would not be a particularly intelligent move on his part,” Reinhard said smoothly. “Instituting a media blackout when citizens are desperate for news of the peace treaty would not look very good for him.”

“Will he realize that?” Julian asked doubtfully. “I mean, I could definitely see him just doing it knee-jerk anyway.”

“And if he does, enough citizens of the Alliance have the capacity and the sense to tune into Imperial broadcast frequencies,” Reinhard said, with a particularly nasty grin. “He doesn’t have a way out.” He stood up straight, fiddling with the clasp of his cloak. “It’s simple. We’ve reached the endgame, and it’s mate in—” He blinked. “Mate in—” Another blink. Julian suddenly realized he was swaying on his feet. Concerned, he started to get up, but before he could do anything else, Reinhard was already falling.

Hilda and Yang caught him between them; Frederica steadied Yang as he grunted and half-fell against his cane. “Reinhard?” Hilda said. “Can you hear me?” But the Kaiser’s head lolled back, eyes shut, unresponsive.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reinhard is cared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter before the epilogue! thanks y'all it's been a blast <3

The waiting room of the medical bay smelled horribly of disinfectant. Frederica hated it; it reminded her too strongly of the horrible night of Wen-Li’s injury. She was trying not to think of what it would mean, for Wen-Li, for Hilda, for peace, if Reinhard died. There was no reason to be having such morbid thoughts. He had probably simply collapsed from the stress.

Beside her, Wen-Li sat slumped, exhausted, half-drowsing over his cane. He’d arguably had a more stressful few days than Reinhard had, but different people reacted differently. To his right, Hilda was a tense bent twist, barely still in the chair, her hands wringing and wringing, as if there was no other outlet for her emotions. Julian had offered to accompany them, but Wen-Li told him to stay on the ship and work on decrypting the rest of the disk.

In the wake of Reinhard’s spectacular collapse, after some frantic deliberating, Wen-Li had contacted Admiral Bucock, who in turn had connected them with a world-renowned hospital on Heinessen whose doctors had agreed to shuttle up to the _Brünhild_. None of them had wanted to subject Reinhard to the trauma of atmospheric re-entry, but although the Imperial physician on board the ship was talented, she was only one woman; a team of specialists would be better equipped to handle it if there really was something seriously wrong, and, as Wen-Li pointed out tiredly to Hilda, it was a gesture of trust at a time when such gestures were sorely needed.

Frederica’s reflections were interrupted as the door opened and the Imperial doctor and one of her Alliance counterparts came out. They glanced at one another, and it was the Alliance doctor who stepped forward. “Kaiser Reinhard is awake and said he preferred that all of you were in the room when we discuss possible diagnoses and treatments.” She looked very sober. Frederica swallowed hard, then automatically put her hand on Wen-Li’s shoulder as a gesture of support. His muscles were tight beneath her hand. Hilda made a small, forlorn noise, and Frederica moved so that she could touch them both, one hand on Wen-Li’s shoulder, the other holding Hilda’s hand.

Reinhard, looking worn and pale, was sitting up in one of the beds of the medical bay, his long-fingered hands idle on the coverlet. “Thank you,” he said, nodding to the doctors as they escorted the remaining members of the sedoretu inside. “Now, if you would.” Although the actual physical manifestation of his voice was weak, there was no weakness in his tone.

They glanced at each other again, and the Imperial doctor stepped forward. “The cause of your collapse was an acute cardiac event brought on by an untreated fever of a hundred and five. In other words, a mild heart attack. You should have been in the medical bay being treated for fever hours ago, if not days.”

Wen-Li flinched. “I didn’t—I didn’t notice anything wrong,” he said.

“I didn’t start feeling sick until the morning anyway,” Reinhard shrugged. “And there were more important things to attend to.”

“Than your _health_?” “Reinhard!” Wen-Li and Hilda spoke at the same time, overlapping one another, and Reinhard had the grace to look slightly abashed.

“Your Majesty,” the Imperial doctor said angrily. “I would expect any member of the crew displaying a fever that high to come to me right away, _particularly_ you.”

“It wasn’t so much worse than the last time,” Reinhard said mulishly.

“Which brings us to the next point,” cut in the Alliance doctor. “A single fever would be indicative of a one-time infection, but thus far we haven’t found any signs of an infectious agent—although the tests are still ongoing—but this repetitive presentation is…troubling.”

“Do you have any idea what’s causing it?” Hilda asked urgently. “I mean, if it’s not an infection, what—”

“It’s likely some form of genetic disorder,” the Alliance doctor said, turning her head to narrow her eyes at the Imperial. “Which my _esteemed_ colleague was apparently unable to _conceptualize_ of—”

“I—we haven’t finished running all the tests!” protested the Imperial doctor. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry, she keeps talking about genetics, but you—you can’t—I mean—”

Reinhard gave her a blank, incredulous stare, but before he could open his mouth, it was Hilda who stepped forward. “Are you _really_ telling me that you’re still so beholden to the Goldenbaum ideals that you wouldn’t even have considered a genetic cause?” she snarled. “Would you rather he _died_?”

The poor Imperial doctor wilted under the force of her anger. “N-No, of course not, Your Majesty, I just—I just—”

“At any rate,” the Alliance doctor continued, cutting in, “I’ve gone through his patient records, and even assuming that there are a number of times you had a fever you didn’t report, I haven’t yet been able to come up with a convincing diagnosis. The severity of the symptoms is striking, given your age. We will, of course, keep running tests. If you have any relatives or a family history to offer, that would also be—”

Reinhard’s eyes widened. “Contact Annerose immediately,” he said hoarsely.

Hilda patted his shoulder soothingly. “We’ll get hold of her as soon as possible, Reinhard. Don’t worry.”

“I’m going to order some genetic tests,” the Alliance doctor said. “Who is Annerose?”

“My sister,” Reinhard said, leaning sideways into Hilda. “My only living relative.”

“She should undergo the tests as well, both to check her health and to use as a comparative baseline. Do you have any other genetic records of your family?” The Imperial doctor made a vague strangled noise.

Reinhard shrugged. “Perhaps?” he said. “We were only minor nobles. There may be records, but I doubt they would have been kept with great care.”

“Whatever you have, give to us,” she told him. “Your Majesty, your continued health is of great concern to the Alliance, particularly at the moment, as I’m sure you know. Please desist in this cavalier treatment of your own wellbeing. And until we have a better idea of what’s wrong with you, you will rest.”

Reinhard’s eyes widened. “But I have so much to do,” he protested.

“Shut up,” Hilda ordered him. “The three of us will do it. Your health is paramount.”

He opened is mouth as if to argue, glanced from her to Wen-Li, who was giving him his most patented Disappointed Face, and subsided. “All right,” he muttered. “But if you need my insight, you have to tell me, and I don’t want—I don’t want to be left alone. I wouldn’t be able to rest like that anyway.”

“There are _plenty_ of people willing to keep you company until you’re feeling better,” Hilda said sternly. “Including but not limited to your night husband, your night wife, and your morning sister.”

Sinking back against the pillows with a rather petulant look, Reinhard sighed. “All right.”

Frowning, Wen-Li stepped over to him, taking his hand with just a little hesitance. “Reinhard, would you mind if I looked through your family records as well? I’ve had some archival training, and I’d like to feel like I was—helping.”

The petulant expression immediately melted away, and Reinhard gave him a tender smile and pressed Wen-Li’s hand to his cheek. “I don’t mind at all,” he said, and, despite everything, Frederica found that she was smiling as well.

~

If someone had asked Oberstein a few weeks ago where he expected to be now, he might have had several possible answers, but he was absolutely certain none of them would have been “attempting to decrypt a Terraist disk with Yang Wen-Li’s ward.” But here he was. And here Julian was. And the boy was actually quite pleasant to work with. Oberstein would have worked with the devil himself, if it had been necessary to decrypt this disk, but Julian actually had a quick eye, a basic working knowledge of computer code, and a blessed tendency towards not speaking unless it was necessary. Over the past few days, trying to distract themselves from the growing fears about Kaiser Reinhard’s health, they had worked hard—not ceaselessly, but hard enough to make it through two out of the probable three layers of encryption.

Somehow, the subject of pets had come up, and Julian had shyly offered to introduce Oberstein to Admiral, his cat, who had been rescued by Walter von Schönkopf during Yang and Greenhill’s hurried departure from their residence on Heinessen. Oberstein, missing Brun, had agreed, if somewhat stiffly. Now there was a ball of warm fur sleepily kneading at Oberstein’s upper thigh, and he was afraid of moving too much, so he’d let Julian take point and was peering over his shoulder while he worked.

The door opened, and he glanced back. “Ah, sorry to disturb you,” Yang Wen-Li said meekly. “Would you mind if I worked over here?” He indicated an undisturbed corner of the computer banks.

“Go ahead,” Oberstein said with a shrug, when Julian looked at him questioningly.

“I see you’ve made Admiral’s acquaintance,” Yang said, pausing to scratch behind the cat’s ear. It started purring loudly, the vibration traveling soothingly through Oberstein’s lap and into his bones.

“Your cat and your ward are both pleasant companions,” Oberstein said, then paused as he realized he hadn’t really intended to say anything of the kind. Not out loud, at least. Julian blushed and ducked his head, but Yang merely gave him a smiling nod and headed over to the indicated terminal.

After a few more minutes, Julian sighed and swore. “I think I’m stuck. I need a break.”

“Go ahead,” Oberstein told him. “I’ll stare at it blankly for you.”

Julian chuckled, then gave him a bemused look. “Was that a joke?”

Oberstein merely raised an eyebrow back at him.

“Well, all right. I’ll just take ten or something.” Julian got up and stretched, wandering across the room to Yang. “How are you doing?”

Sharp sigh. “Stuck,” Yang said shortly. “I’m just dealing with too much spread in the family tree, and I haven’t really found much. I’ve gotten back to the House of Merode, but the records at that point are just becoming hard to track down.”

“Oh, they’ve been extinct for generations,” Oberstein said. “People are always claiming they’re descended from Maria of Merode, but most of the time they’re simply trying to make themselves sound important.”

“Maria of Merode? Hmmm…” Yang’s hands clicked over the keys. “Ah. Found her. So she was a renowned beauty, etcetera, etcetera, and the last of the Merodes until she married into the Apstein family, where she had—goodness. Eleven daughters.”

“And that’s why everyone can claim they’re related to her,” Oberstein said, with a faint smirk.

“Not a single boy,” Yang said. “None of her daughters had sons either. That’s—statistically improbable.” He frowned. “At least I’ve found another set of records going back now. Her father was…the only boy and had seven sisters.” He leaned forward.

“That’s pretty strange, isn’t it?” Julian asked.

“Oh, it’s _very_ strange,” Yang agreed. “A generation earlier and suddenly we’re seeing records of boys, but most of them are recorded as miscarriages.”

Oberstein chuckled. “No wonder the House of Merode went extinct,” he said shortly. “Infanticide is such a tricky business.”

“Infanticide?” Yang echoed. “Why?”

“An attempt, I imagine, to circumvent the culling of the entire family because of a suspected genetic defect. Not such an unusual practice even recently. Although I’ve never heard of a family that specifically killed only their boys. That seems rather self-defeating.”

“Unless it was only the boys who were affected,” Yang said slowly. “Then you’d be damned if you did and damned if you didn’t…” He scanned his way rapidly down the screen.

“What are you working on, anyway?” Oberstein asked, and Yang looked up quickly.

“Reinhard’s family tree,” he said. “The Alliance doctor thinks whatever is wrong with him might be genetic, and, well, it’s the only way I can help.”

Oberstein’s hand went automatically to his cybernetic eyes, not clicking the record button, just hovering nearby. “Really?” he said, his voice sounding a little distant to his own ears. “Reinhard von Lohengramm—that’s—that’s—surprising.”

Julian turned a little quickly. “Do you have a problem with it?” he asked.

“What?” Oberstein asked blankly. “Oh—no. No, not at all. I simply didn’t expect to share a characteristic with the Kaiser. Particularly not one this…taboo.”

“I’m going to take this to Doctor Katz, I think,” Yang said, frowning. Then he looked up. “Thank you for your help, Admiral Oberstein.”

“Oh—ah—yes. Of course. I’m glad I could be of service.”

As Yang passed him, he gave Oberstein a bland, wide smile, “And next time you feel it’s necessary to record my sex life in the interests of galactic peace, please inform me first.”

~

“You still don’t know what’s wrong?” Hilda demanded.

Doctor Laura Katz of the Free Planets Alliance shook her head, looking harassed. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, we’re doing everything we can, but we don’t even know where to look. Sequencing the Kaiser’s entire genome is not exactly a small undertaking.”

Less than a year ago, news of his possible impending death wouldn’t have even caused Reinhard to frown. Of course, he wasn’t going to show Hilda that the thought of dying _now_, when he finally had a reason that he didn’t want to—she had enough to handle, so he sat quietly and tried to read and think about Kircheis. It was easier to think about what he’d lost than what he might be losing.

Knock on the door. “Come in!” Reinhard called, not particularly wanting to listen to Hilda get into a shouting match with the Alliance doctor.

Wen-Li opened the door and slipped inside. “I may have some information for you,” he said to Doctor Katz. “If you still need it?”

“Anything,” she sighed. “What is it?”

“Oberstein and I have been looking through Reinhard’s family records, and there’s a good chance whatever is wrong with him only affects men.”

Reinhard sat up straighter. “Are you sure?” he asked sharply.

“I wish I could be sure of anything,” Wen-Li told him, with a slightly sober smile. “But it does seem likely. It would explain why there’s very few records of anything like what’s happening to you, and also a really suspicious lack of male heirs in one of the family branches.”

“That’s extremely useful,” cut in Doctor Katz. “That already means we should focus in on his X chromosome. I still can’t think of anything it could be, though—”

“There was one other thing,” Wen-Li told her. “This is complete speculation, because I’m not a scientist, but ah—historically speaking, it seems as if inbreeding has been known to increase the severity of certain conditions?” He gave Reinhard an embarrassed look. “There were a lot of marriages between cousins in your family tree, that’s all.”

Reinhard coughed out a sharp laugh. “It would serve them right,” he said bitterly. “Their idiotic attempts to create a ‘pure’ bloodline backfiring.”

“That’s—a point,” Doctor Katz said meditatively. “I hadn’t thought of that, but—yes, focus on the X chromosome, look into disorders that might be worsened by inbreeding…” She wandered away, muttering to herself, as Hilda looked frustratedly after her.

“Well,” she said, after a moment. “At least it seems she might have an idea of how to help now.”

Reinhard stretched one hand out to each of them, gesturing them over to the bed. “I—want to—tell you something,” he said haltingly.

“You can tell me anything, anytime,” Hilda said, and he had to smile at her unbridled ferocity. It wasn’t so long ago that she would have tried to hide that from him, to avoid stepping out of the place she’d carved for herself. Wen-Li just gave him a faint smile and rested a hand gently on Reinhard’s wrist.

“I’m afraid,” Reinhard said harshly. “I don’t know why. I’ve never been afraid of dying before. But now, I—am.” He turned his hand over and clutched at Wen-Li’s, slid an arm around Hilda’s waist and drew her closer.

“You’re not going to die,” Hilda told him. “Do you know how many doctors are working on this? You’re going to be fine.” She kissed his cheek, then his mouth.

Wen-Li gave him a little shrugging motion. “Maybe you’ve been around me too much. I’m generally afraid of dying.”

“If that’s why, then he hasn’t been around you _enough_,” Hilda objected. “Please force some self-preservation into him.”

“I’m doing my best,” Wen-Li said quietly, squeezing Reinhard’s hand. Reinhard sucked in a sudden, irregular breath. It wasn’t a sob—not quite.

“Thank you,” he choked out, frustrated with how difficult it was to form words, how much his throat was constricting. Perhaps his fever had come back, but it didn’t feel like that.

Another quick knock on the door heralded Frederica’s entry. “I just wanted to see if anyone needed anything?” she asked. Wen-Li stretched a hand out to her wordlessly, and she crossed to the bed.

“I’m all right,” Reinhard told her. “Or, as these two keep telling me, I’ll _be_ all right.”

“I could make everyone tea,” Frederica suggested, with a mischievous smile. “_Just_ tea, though, if you’re going to be drinking it in a sick room.”

Wen-Li huffed out a slightly theatrical-sounding sigh. “You do make very good tea,” he agreed after a moment. “Sandwiches, too. Reinhard, have you ever had any of Frederica’s famous sandwiches?”

“I can’t say I’ve had that pleasure.” Reinhard had never felt like this—surrounded by love and warmth on all sides. He was physically weak and exhausted, but somehow he felt better than he had in a long time.

“Sandwiches and tea it is,” Frederica said. “Anything else? Hilda, Reinhard, would you prefer coffee? I make quite good coffee, even if _some_ people are ungrateful.”

“Tea is fine for me, thank you,” Hilda said, leaning up to kiss Frederica on the cheek.

“What _is_ this?” Reinhard burst out finally. “I don’t—what—”

“A marriage, probably,” Frederica said. “You just rest, day brother.” Her hand brushed lightly through his hair before she headed for the door again.

_A marriage._

Well. Perhaps it was.


	21. Epilogue

Reinhard von Lohengramm survived the next day, then the next week. Doctor Laura Katz of the Free Planets Alliance and Doctor Imogen von Hildebrandt of the Empire produced a gene therapy regimen and a set of drugs expected to improve his chances in the long run. Julian Mintz and Paul von Oberstein finished cracking the final encryption shell, and found, among the information gained, the locations of Adrian Rubinsky and the remaining heads of the Terraist Church. Rubinsky was summarily arrested and put on trial by a joint task force of Alliance and Imperial representatives but died of a malignant brain tumor before the verdict was decided. A pitched battle with the Terraist leaders claimed the lives of thirty Imperial soldiers, twenty Alliance soldiers, and ten civilians, in addition to sixty-eight cultists. In the meantime, Job Trunicht resigned in the face of mass public protests, and a rapid campaign season in the Alliance ensued. Yang Wen-Li refused categorically to run for office, despite the consistent wheedling of Walter von Schönkopf.

The treaty held. The Imperial troops withdrew slowly, while the sedoretu remained on Heinessen until Reinhard’s health permitted him to travel. Hildegarde von Mariendorf penned a series of reforms to the Imperial political system. Frederica Greenhill and the retired Alexander Bucock worked to reinvent the Peace Party for a new era, in memory of Jessica Edwards, with Yang Wen-Li’s tacit support. Slowly, the galaxy began to rebuild itself as what had been an impossible dream became commonplace.

On the third of May 800 UC, almost a year after the Battle of Vermilion was ended by a wedding, Hildegarde von Mariendorf announced her pregnancy. The newspapers reported the joy and harmony of the sedoretu; Julian Mintz, who had had to nurse Yang through his hangover the day after the announcement and the wild press storm, snorted. Two months later, when Frederica Greenhill confirmed her own pregnancy, Julian confiscated all the alcohol in the house, although the largely honorary status of the morning and night consort made it less of a media whirlwind.

On February 27th, 801 UC, Hildegarde von Mariendorf gave birth to a son, Siegfried Dwight von Lohengramm. On February 28th, an assassination attempt using a genetically engineered virus by a group of dissident Imperial eugenicists failed to harm the child but nearly resulted in Reinhard’s death, and he was bedridden for the following month.

April 4th 801 UC marked Yang Wen-Li’s thirty-fourth birthday.

~

“Am I allowed to take the blindfold off yet?” Yang asked in amusement, blowing a puff of air upwards to try and seat the fine silk in a slightly less ticklish position.

“This would have been faster if the doctors would let me out of this damn wheelchair,” Reinhard grunted. “I hate having to be pushed everywhere.”

“Maybe if you’d let someone do the pushing other than the person you decided should be blindfolded…”

“No.”

“I could have done it perfectly well, you have no one but yourself to blame,” Hilda told him.

“You have to carry Sieg,” Reinhard said. Yang chuckled as the baby made a soft cooing noise.

“_I_ could have carried Sieg _or_ pushed you,” Frederica put in.

“I wanted Wen-Li to push me,” Reinhard sulked, and Yang couldn’t help laughing.

“Then you’ll just have to deal with the fact that I’m slow when I can’t see anything.”

“All right, stop,” Reinhard instructed him. “Oh, damnation, there’s _stairs_.”

“Wen-Li, you hold Sieg, Frederica and I will get him down the stairs,” Hilda said, with a long-suffering sigh.

“Are you sure Frederica should be lifting—”

“I’ll be fine, dear. Don’t worry about me.” Lips on his cheek. The next second, he was holding Sieg, who promptly started screaming at the top of his lungs and kicking his tiny feet against Yang’s arm.

“Ah…” Yang said. “Once again, he is fully prepared for life with me as a father.”

“Oh, hush,” Hilda told him distractedly. One or two thumping noises followed, and then she cursed a few times. “There. You’re down the damn stairs.”

“If you’d let me get out of the wheelchair for a few seconds—”

“No!”

Reinhard didn’t say anything further, but there was a distinct sense of sulkiness emanating from his general direction.

“Oh dear,” Hilda said, taking Sieg back from Yang. “Oh dear, it’s all right, darling. Shhh, now. Oh, he’s not stopping. Shhhh. Oh dear.”

“Give him to me,” Reinhard demanded. The sound of rustling cloth was followed by Reinhard’s voice singing a few soft notes, and Sieg’s screams quieted. Frederica offered an arm to Yang. “Down the steps, careful now.”

Tiled floor, Yang noted. He had absolutely no idea where they were, which had presumably been Reinhard’s intention.

“It’s just the four steps,” Frederica told him. “All right, you’re down.”

A firm hand on his elbow could only be Reinhard. “You may remove your blindfold now,” he said in his most regal tone of voice.

“If you’re absolutely sure, Your Majesty,” Yang teased him, reaching up to do just that. It fluttered away downwards; he’d intended to catch it, but the sight in front of his eyes arrested him and he could only stand still and stare.

He’d never seen so many books, not even in the library at the military academy, rows and rows and rows of books of all sizes and shapes, stacked and piled on shelves that reached up to a ceiling that had to be the equivalent of three stories high. Watery sunlight illuminated them, filtering in from thin, arched windows, and Yang took a trembling step forward, staring around him, his soul thrilling to the calming sensation of billions upon billions of words inscribed on millions of pages.

“It’s the new joint Imperial and Alliance archives,” Reinhard explained. He sounded diffident. “I was hoping you’d accept an appointment as the—as the lead archivist on the project. A great number of them haven’t been catalogued and some haven’t even been digitized.”

“I—” Yang’s voice caught in his throat at the enormity of it.

“You don’t have to, of course,” Reinhard assured him. “But—they’re yours. If you want.”

All Yang could do was manage a faint nod.

“Then—happy birthday,” Reinhard said. “From all of us. Frederica and Hilda ensured you wouldn’t find out about the project and I—Julian helped me plan it. Julian spent the past month getting all the rest of it in order. I was supposed to, but, well…”

“You would not _believe_ the trouble we had keeping him in bed,” Hilda groaned. “I kept trying to tell him it wouldn’t be much of a birthday present for you if he dropped dead beforehand, but he kept _arguing_.”

“Because I _felt_ fine,” Reinhard sniped back.

“Says the man who had a heart attack because he didn’t notice a 105 degree fever.”

“Thank you,” Yang managed. “All of you. I—this is—” He had to stop again, because words just seemed so insufficient. “I honestly don’t think I can tell you how much this means to me,” he said finally.

“Oh, Wen-Li,” Frederica twined her fingers with his and leaned against him, kissing the side of his mouth. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He kissed her back, running a gentle hand over her swollen belly, marveling for what had to be the thousandth time at how ridiculously lucky he was. Frederica tangled her hands in his hair and held him close, and he breathed in her scent and half lost himself in her warmth. Then, letting her support his bad leg, he leaned sideways across the wheelchair and kissed Reinhard, long and deep, on the mouth.

Reinhard made a soft noise of surprise that turned into something much needier. In his lap, Sieg made a vaguely petulant sound, and Yang found he was smiling against Reinhard’s mouth, smiling helplessly, unable to stop. “Thank you,” he breathed again.

“It’s only what you deserve,” Reinhard told him fiercely as they broke apart. Then, after a half-beat-pause, “And I love you.” Golden lashes came down across his sharp blue eyes, a red flush rising to dust his cheeks. Yang kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand.

“I love you, too. My white king.”

Reinhard’s smile turned teasing, his pupils dilating just a touch. “Mate in one?”


End file.
